I walked in the door at 8:45 tonight. After leaving my house at 7:10 this morning.
This is my living room as it appears at this exact moment.
It is spotted with toddler socks and books and toys.
There are TV trays that aren’t put away.
There are shoes.
And pillows. And bags.
If I showed this room from another angle, you’d see the place where I haphazardly plop my teacher bag and purse when I get home. You’d see that the shoebox from Joshua’s new shoes didn’t make it into the recycling. You’d see a book or two scattered around the couch. And Joshua’s new train set.
The furniture hasn’t been dusted.
The floor is unswept.
The rug is unvaccuumed.
I do not recommend that you eat off of my floors (though I suspect that if Joshua dropped a “go” he’d pick it up and eat it before I could stop him).
This room is not perfect.
It is not spotless.
What you would not see in this room, but what I know exists here, is peace.
In this room there is love. And home. And family.
In this room there is forgiveness.
And hope.
I am not perfect. I will never BE perfect. And my messy living room? Is a visual symbol of my lack of perfection. Of my messy life.
We are not perfect. Life is not perfect. It is messy and chaotic and dusty and unkempt. And we need to cut ourselves some slack. Because while others are on the quest for visual perfection, we are living. Sometimes day to day. Sometimes minute to minute. But living.
I love you, PPD mamas. I love you and your messy imperfections.