What a Mess

My preschooler is a slob.  Liv throws herself into every activity with such wild abandon that she neglects the precision needed to get the task done without coming out covered in debris. She's the only one in her class that requires a smock for meals (not a bib, a smock), and she comes home each night covered in the day's art projects. She flings  toys around the room in the most incredible, imaginative play, and reprimands me for "breaking her campout," when I put the piles of things she's heaped in the middle of the living room away. Being as Type A as I am, I'm often struggling to bite my tongue and let her be a kid. I worry that my child will inherit my anxieties about life needing such structure, and that I'll stifle that magical sprit and whirling dervish she has in her. 

In an effort to finish some tasks around the house the other day, I set Olivia up in the kitchen with a sheet of paper, a paper plate with three small blobs of color, and a paintbrush. I walked away. In coming back to see how she was doing, I found my girl: handfuls of blue paint running up and down her arms, a trail of blue paint on her nose, and polka dots dabbed on her cheeks and forehead. My first inclination was to run for the Spray-n-Wash, but instead I started to laugh, and called all willing parties to come observe the splendor. "Look Mom, it's my magical gloves!" she exclaimed with such pride I couldn't help but be proud, too.  I put more paint on her plate.

In reality, my daughter is helping me learn to find child-like pleasures in the messes that she creates: the pile of toys she stacks with her own sense of precision to build a city, the way she empties her stuffed animal bin, lying each facedown and tucking them in for a rest with EVERY blanket torn from her color and texture coordinated closet. There is magic in that, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

Really?

I’ve lived with several roommates in my young adulthood.  In college I lived with two of my very best friends, and after a year with each we were arduously struggling to maintain tolerance in a fruitless effort to preserve a friendship. Marriage does not come with the option of a different lease agreement. Having lived with my husband for six years, I’m often left scratching my head, mulling over an internal dialogue of, “Really?” Is he REALLY doing this again, is he REALLY leaving his socks lumped on the floor… again. Really? And so, I’ve created a list of those head scratching moments that make me question how I’ll ever survive living with an eternal roommate.

Things that I abhor about sharing my space:

1.       When, after having spent hours scouring the house and leaving a mass of gleaming façades, I find coffee rings in the kitchen, in the office and on the bathroom counter.

2.       Finding his suits, belts, ties, and dress shoes strew around as though some phantom hurricane ripped them from his body.

3.       Constant reminders that emptying his pockets at will on any available surface is purely unacceptable.

4.       Having to repeat (on a daily basis) that beard shavings should be washed DOWN the sink, and not simply splashed around in a pitiful attempt to rinse the basin.

5.       The perpetual search for the toothpaste cap which, by-the-way, belongs ON the tube.

6.       Reminders that his soaked gym clothing should NOT be put in MY lovely linen laundry hamper in the bedroom, but rather should be hung to dry on the plastic hamper downstairs… before I wash them for him.

7.       The horror of finding that, in an attempt to “do something nice”, he’s washed my white blouses with his greasy, mud-stained jeans… and has thrown them all in the dryer.

8.       Explaining, again, that he’s NEVER to touch my laundry… or the girls’ laundry. Ever.

9.       The perpetual debate that throwing dishes into kitchen sink just isn’t quite the same as rinsing them and throwing them into the dishwasher.

10.   The perpetual debate over my perceived importance of “processing” items one through nine.

And, here is a list of the heartwarming ones that make me eternally grateful for my eternal roommate.

Things that I adore about sharing my space:

1.       When, after a long or demanding day, I have a partner in crime to help heard our whirling dervishes to the dinner table.

2.       The way Alexa shakes with pure, unparalled glee when he jumps from behind the couch to startle her.

3.       How he will, without hesitation, allow Olivia to paint his nails and prance around with a fairy tutu on his head.

4.       The fact that Liv has a ride upstairs to bed.  Every night.  Without fail.

5.       The fact that he would give me a ride, too, if I asked.

6.       His ability to make me feel safe, and how he would never allow me to walk on the outside of the road shoulder.

7.       His amazing ability to fix nearly everything, and the incredible efforts he’s put into learning how to fix the things that he can’t.

8.       The way he will pose with a forced smile for ONE MORE photo, though it’s fundamentally unimportant to him, just because he knows it’s fundamentally important to me.

9.       That he will give me control of the remote, nearly every day, without complaining.

10.   The way he stills looks at me, as though I’m the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen, despite my frazzled hair, oversized sweatpants and the baby on my hip. And when I ask him, “Will you love me forever, really?”, he says “Yes, really.” Every time.