My life is a mess.
It’s always felt that way. No matter how hard I tried to control things, to get them to go the way I wanted, chaos always seemed to follow. It didn’t help that my method of organizing consisted of “a pile for everything, and everything in its pile.” I rode through life by the seat of my pants, barely hanging on to the wheel as circumstances tried to toss me in a ditch.
Then I got married and things began to settle down a bit. Julia put stuff in boxes and drawers instead of piles, and slowly I learned to do the same. My life began to feel more in control.
Then we had a kid. Chaos returned.
And you know what? We got used to it. We didn’t have a choice. Being a parent is a magnificent mess, and I wouldn’t have it any other way. Because even when the dishes are piled in the sink, and the carpet needs vacuuming, and the clean clothes are running low, it can all wait.
If Anna wants to read, or play with toys, or go to the park, or take turns on her iPad, we’ll do that instead. The mess will still be there when we’re done, and now she’s old enough to help clean it up.
And on the first Friday of each month …