My sad truth is my house is too small. And I've known that for a while, but I didn't want to admit it—I've had to be the one to fight for our little home when my husband wanted to move, because it financially didn't make sense. It still financially doesn't make sense for us to move (shout out to child support payments, daycare, Children's Healthcare of Atlanta and the student loan administration!) but I am suddenly starting to be a little OCD about the mess. The walls *might* be starting to close in a touch.
Too many mammals live in my house.
And too many train tables.
And too many pieces of furniture my husband insists we have.
And too many little things I've refused to get rid of because I might need it at some point and doesn't everyone decorate for St. Patrick’s Day?
My guest room used to be a room with spare things that we didn't have another place to put. It has now mushroomed to be so much more. You can hardly walk in there. I keep meaning to get it cleaned out, and I have the best intentions, but then it will just mushroom again and like my life, I never seem to have control over it.
But the real thing that's irking me is the mess in the rest of the house thanks to two busy little boys and their beloved big brother. Every time I put one train car in the bag, three more crawl under the sofa.
Every time I find six Nerf bullets, another six roll to the bathroom.
A few months ago my mother sent me this quote, when I first started to complain about the mess the twins could make in no time flat.
Perhaps the quote is right, the mess is like fairy dust and when it goes away I won't be less tired; I'll long for the little boys who would scream for their momma to cuddle them in their "Bubba Nest" so they can fall asleep.
Or maybe one day I'll step on a spare Percy, then trip on a bunch of Nerf bullets and land head first into a stuffed animal and I'll just crack.
Either way, I'll one day miss this stage.