Don't Come Over
I don't much like to have people over. And I know how that sounds. It sounds unwelcoming and rude and introverted in a closed off and cold way.
I’ve decided that the process of accepting visitors for me should be, “You show me yours, I’ll show you mine.” As in, you show me photos of your house in its average state of being, submit an essay on your style of housekeeping, and then sign a waiver of confidentiality.
There are so very few people that I don't feel the need to apologize for the mess and clutter and chaos of my home. And even with them, I still apologize because it's an automatic knee-jerk reaction. Still working on that whole "zero effs given" thing when it comes to house and yard presentation.
Please don't judge me for my inability to hold this place together. I really try to. And sometimes, I almost get there but then the sun rises for another day, and it all falls to shit.
I'm not lazy, except when I am. I mean, really, having three kids all under the age of ten under one roof is like asking for a tornado to touch down multiple times a day. I used to follow behind them picking stuff up, then I started following behind them sweetly asking them to pick stuff up, which morphed into me following behind them nagging them to pick stuff up, and that unfolded into me raging at them from wherever the hell I am, to pick stuff up.
This summer, I have given up. I don't have the energy to even think about begging/nagging/raging. I'm appreciating my time spent on more healing, helpful practices, such as meditating, writing, reading, being on my mat, laying in a hammock under my favourite tree, or sitting with a cup of coffee and averting my eyes from basically everything. "If I can't see it, it's not there." Or, you know, some more yogic statement about happiness and peace only coming from within.
Because my moods have been rather precarious as of late, and I never know if I'll be too exhausted to care what you think about the state of things here, or just anxious enough to be sent into full-blown panic mode, don't come over.
I AM welcoming invitations to your place. Or to other places that are mutually beneficial, where keeping up appearances is unnecessary, such as the park, a splash pad, the beach, children's early years centre, the trail, a sidewalk, a parking lot, or a corn field. I'm not picky. And just so we're clear, whatever state your place is in, I genuinely do not care, because:
A) I get what holy energetic and creative and destructive forces children can be.
B) I get how much more enjoyable it is to hang in a hammock or sit and stare into space than it is to clean, depending upon where one is at in their cycle. I know you know what I mean.
C) I get that the sun rises again and again and again, and the sun sets again and again and again. And so no matter your intention, it will all fall to shit again and again and again. Duality, people. Light, dark. Up, down. Joy, sadness. Holy order, Holy chaos. That's gotta be somewhere in some yogic or religious text.
D) I was told by a dear friend that the most creative individuals are also unorganized individuals. More time and care given to the creative process means less time for agonizing over perfecting appearances of everything else. I'll take it!
One day, I will have all of the pictures printed, framed, and hung on the walls with artistic and motherly pride. I'll have Pinterest-worthy decorations, and my windows will be cleaned with the seasons as opposed to.... annually. One day, my floors will be mopped once a week and the dust bunnies will be cleared out as opposed to joining my household like additional pets. The colour of my walls will be exquisitely flattering to the Pinterest-worthy house décor that also so happens to perfectly match my family's sense of unique, natural, easy-going, inspiring, enviable style. You'll undeniably know what the wall colour is, too, you won't have to question whether the food and dirt smudges are artistic choices of flare, or whether the lack of trim in the kitchen is a new minimalistic trend. One day, my yard will be more grass than weird patches of sand and mostly-useless weeds, but only thanks to natural eco-friendly practices. The hedges and bushes will be trimmed with immaculate accuracy and care, flowers will bloom with saturating pops of colour, and children's toys will not litter the yard like a toy cemetery. One day, my creative space will be mine, and I won't have to share my yoga mat with a creepy staring baby doll that doesn't quite know whether she wants to open both eyes or just one.
This one magical day to come in the future, where everything comes together to the sound of choirs of angels singing, also means that my babies will be older. I won't have to nag (as much), but I also won't have the pleasure of listening to their gleeful childish laughter, or witness their budding creative skills as dancers, musicians, Lego architects, and pretend cheetahs. I won't be surrounded by the constant reminders of my most important job in this lifetime, which is showing my kids that internal satisfaction matters more than what anything could possibly look like on the outside.
One day, my home will be worthy of visitors without my first going into a flurry of anxiety. But until then, I'll just be over here at my laptop with my coffee, writing, averting my eyes from the mess and listening to gleeful childish laughter.