Decorating with Fingerprints
Ever feel stuck? Ever feel like you know exactly what you want and how to get there, but someone or something is blocking your way? I've been feeling stuck for a long while now...in my pursuit of a NEAT AND TIDY HOUSE. It's not really very messy most of the time, but it's rarely at the level of order and visual pleasure that I desire...and I have 5 someones blocking my way to Martha Stewart utopia, not to mention the gazillion somethings that prohibit the use of my waking hours shoveling my pathway to that serene place. I dream about it. I plan and scheme to make it happen. Then life interrupts my strategy and I get discouraged.
I will never understand how living, breathing, fully functioning human beings do not notice the feeling of misplaced clothing under their feet (even if they trip on them)... Blueberries, permanently making their mark on the kitchen floor...chunks of rice stuck to the bottom of their socked feet upon leaving the dinner table...important school books and papers laying there, protecting the hardwood floors from, heaven forbid, someone walking on them. The white, porcelain bathroom sink polka dotted with pink and blue toothpaste blobs...that's as far as I'll go in the bathroom for your sake. DVD's, although not nearly as comfortable as throw cushions, scattering the sofa waiting for someone to lounge upon them...and far from finally, our magical lawn growing grass, dandelions, bicycles and swords. Call me hypersensitive, but I just can't help but prefer not to live with these oddities.
I asked the kids the other day at the dinner table, if they could change one thing about me, what would it be. All but one said that I wouldn't be so wound up and snappy about things...especially the neatness of the house. Refraining from the normal, "Oh ya, well if you would just..." response, I gracefully thanked them for their honesty and asked for them to prayer for me in that area of spiritual transformation. With a gentle smile and no expectation of an opportunity for me to "share" my beefs with them, I accepted their assessment. I know I can be snappy. I know I get wound up. I know I want a neat and tidy house REALLY BADLY (did I use "badly" properly?).
I need to want a gentle and quiet spirit more.
I'm not there yet. I just can't seem to let go of my domestic dream. If the place were a constant pig sty, I would feel justified in my expectation, but I don't think it is. I refuse to take the "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" approach, so my battle strategy is to take one territory at a time. Stealthily and well thought out, I will gain control and occupy the entire house, with flowers, fine scents, organized shelf baskets and visible floors. For now, my sites are set on only the main living areas. The living room, kitchen and family room...they will me mine. All the others have doors that I can shut and remove the carnage from my sight. As all good world dictators would be, I shall be charming, calm and patient. I will not show all of my cards. Someday, they will all wake up and realize that this house is mine, it is in fine order and smells great.
Something tells me though, that they will likely be waking up in another bed, in their own disarrayed house when that blessed day arrives.
But I like them in my house. I like them waking up in these beds. I guess I should focus my discontented eyes on the fact they are still here with me. I love that. I love the smell of their cheeks when I kiss them good morning (even the whiskery ones). I love the stick man artwork that clutters the walls. I love the grass stained, hole ridden army pants that tell of my son's joyful activity and the dirty dishes that remind me of the fact that I am nourishing my own children and not someone else. I can even love the dirty fingerprints left on the stairway walls that mark their awesome presence in my life. They are all fingerprints. All marks of their young, emerging personalities. Imperfect, unfinished and God designed...like mine.
I wonder how many kids Martha Stewart has? I wouldn't trade mine for all the "Good Housekeeping" cover spreads in the world. Ok then, I like where I'm stuck.
I will never understand how living, breathing, fully functioning human beings do not notice the feeling of misplaced clothing under their feet (even if they trip on them)... Blueberries, permanently making their mark on the kitchen floor...chunks of rice stuck to the bottom of their socked feet upon leaving the dinner table...important school books and papers laying there, protecting the hardwood floors from, heaven forbid, someone walking on them. The white, porcelain bathroom sink polka dotted with pink and blue toothpaste blobs...that's as far as I'll go in the bathroom for your sake. DVD's, although not nearly as comfortable as throw cushions, scattering the sofa waiting for someone to lounge upon them...and far from finally, our magical lawn growing grass, dandelions, bicycles and swords. Call me hypersensitive, but I just can't help but prefer not to live with these oddities.
I asked the kids the other day at the dinner table, if they could change one thing about me, what would it be. All but one said that I wouldn't be so wound up and snappy about things...especially the neatness of the house. Refraining from the normal, "Oh ya, well if you would just..." response, I gracefully thanked them for their honesty and asked for them to prayer for me in that area of spiritual transformation. With a gentle smile and no expectation of an opportunity for me to "share" my beefs with them, I accepted their assessment. I know I can be snappy. I know I get wound up. I know I want a neat and tidy house REALLY BADLY (did I use "badly" properly?).
I need to want a gentle and quiet spirit more.
I'm not there yet. I just can't seem to let go of my domestic dream. If the place were a constant pig sty, I would feel justified in my expectation, but I don't think it is. I refuse to take the "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em" approach, so my battle strategy is to take one territory at a time. Stealthily and well thought out, I will gain control and occupy the entire house, with flowers, fine scents, organized shelf baskets and visible floors. For now, my sites are set on only the main living areas. The living room, kitchen and family room...they will me mine. All the others have doors that I can shut and remove the carnage from my sight. As all good world dictators would be, I shall be charming, calm and patient. I will not show all of my cards. Someday, they will all wake up and realize that this house is mine, it is in fine order and smells great.
Something tells me though, that they will likely be waking up in another bed, in their own disarrayed house when that blessed day arrives.
But I like them in my house. I like them waking up in these beds. I guess I should focus my discontented eyes on the fact they are still here with me. I love that. I love the smell of their cheeks when I kiss them good morning (even the whiskery ones). I love the stick man artwork that clutters the walls. I love the grass stained, hole ridden army pants that tell of my son's joyful activity and the dirty dishes that remind me of the fact that I am nourishing my own children and not someone else. I can even love the dirty fingerprints left on the stairway walls that mark their awesome presence in my life. They are all fingerprints. All marks of their young, emerging personalities. Imperfect, unfinished and God designed...like mine.
I wonder how many kids Martha Stewart has? I wouldn't trade mine for all the "Good Housekeeping" cover spreads in the world. Ok then, I like where I'm stuck.
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- Christine