In real life, if not here in bloggerville, I tend to be a rather fastidious person. Some might even call it anal-retentive.
I prefer to think that I simply like to keep things organized. If you use it, you should put it back. If you make a mess, you should clean it up. Right now, if not five minutes ago.
This is how I’d choose to live my life, absent the influence of small and not-so-small people who frequently thwart my desires for perfect order.
Oh God do they thwart my desires for perfect order. If I strive toward perfect order, then they seek perfect chaos.
I find myself attempting to restore order all bloody day long. Some of it must be done, of course; if a little person laboriously places 10 marbles in a line on each and every stair (to represent “Zoo Animals,” of course), that’s something that must be picked up and fast.
What’s bothering me is the attitude that I’m bringing to these tasks. I seem be clinging to the notion that the proper state of things is the one that exists in my house from 8 pm to 6 am…the night-time state. Things are neat then. No one is painting on the walls with carrots. No one is leaving a trail of Cheerios in his wake. No one is poking me with a slice of bacon*.
That’s my mistake, you see. The night-time state of things (which bears a remarkable similarity to the pre-children state of things, did you notice?), is no longer the normal state in my house.
I’ve got to get used to carrot-colored walls.
Carrot-colored walls, trails of Cheerios and an elbow that smells like bacon…maybe that’s how things are meant to be. Maybe that’s how life should be organized. Maybe that is order.
Who am I to impose my notions of order on these little people? It’s like trying to dam up a thundering river.
Carrot-colored walls. I can live with that.
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