My House Has Exploded...

Oh crap. My house has exploded. Really.

I could tell you that my house is a mess, but that would be akin to reminding that you that Hitler was not really a very nice man. Let me elaborate. My dining room table is a dumping zone for everything that enters the house that isn’t suitable for little fingers. Sometimes the piles actually get so tall that removing one item creates a mini avalanche, sort of like playing an unintentional game of Jenga.  It would be hilarious if it weren’t so terrifying.

The living room is where I leave all items that need desperately to go upstairs but make noise in the process. I can’t really take them up while the kids are awake, but I can’t take them up while the kids are sleeping either, for obvious reasons. Hmmm…

Our bedroom is where I deposit all the clothing, etc, that needs to get into the kids’ rooms eventually, but gets dealt with while the kids are asleep. When to put it in their room? You can see the dilemma, I imagine. The study/guestroom is overflow from our bedroom when I can’t take it anymore.

I am proud to say that the kitchen and family room areas are in good shape. The family room tends to appear as if a toy bomb exploded, but that’s to be expected with two year old twins, and we do a pretty good clean up each evening. I also have a compulsive need to keep their toys organized, but not for the obvious reasons. I certainly don’t object to it all looking neat at night, but my central reasoning is that I have an aversion to not finding what I’m looking for somewhat promptly. As an extension of that, I thoroughly appreciate that my anal retentive habits have created children that can find the specific toy they desire without my assistance, most of the time. Yes, at 2.5 years old. Cool, huh?  I’m all about the independent thing.

 The kitchen is kept clean and basically tidy most of the time, but I can do that while the kids are playing quietly(ish) in the family room and on our screen porch so I would have no excuse otherwise. Besides, unsanitary invites bugs into the house and I’ll have none of that.

I have joked, on many occasions, that I would be a really crappy 1950’s wife. I can cook and bake pretty well, but that’s probably the only skill I have that makes me a good wife, at least in the traditional sense. I have the household organizational capacity of an orangutan, along with their sense of neatness. My hair is never done and the kids go out in public with non threatening stains and dirty faces way too often for me to win any mom of the year awards.  I have a house cleaner that comes once a month to clean up the really nasty messes, but otherwise cleaning is not something that happens very often at all. I shudder to think what our cleaner says about my house after she leaves. Maybe I don’t want to know.

On the flip side, my children smile and wave at every person who opens a door for us with our double wide stroller. They even say “Hi, Nice man/woman” if they are in the mood, totally unprompted. They know how to say please, in the most adorable way, when they really want something and their “thank you smile” just melts me to nothingness. If you measure them by the standards of a toddler, they have a wonderful tolerance for waiting and they know (I mean REALLY know) that when I promise to do something I will do it. If we are fortunate enough to have avoided a meltdown moment, they even cease their requests until the time that I had promised to deliver.  I’m insanely proud of that.

My kids give the best hugs and kisses I have ever seen (in my unbiased view, of course) and they share, between themselves and with others, with an willingness that tells me that my constant and unyielding attempts to meet their individual needs must be successful enough to instill a healthy dose of self esteem.  

My husband and I still have something to talk about, when we aren’t too tired to think. We can still make each other laugh and on our recent vacation we actually spent most of an evening sitting on a balcony, chatting, laughing, and watching the sun set with glasses of wine. Almost  6 years and two kids later, that’s not too shabby.

Is that what “they” meant when they said to prioritize and let the rest go? Hmmmm…. Perhaps…