The Realization

I realized something today. This is my life. This is what I've become. A slob. At least that's how it appears as I walk from room to room, trying not to step on smooshed-up peas from dinner and saltine cracker crumbs from lunch. (There are probably still some soggy, yet hardened cheerios from breakfast there too.) The desk in my home office is constantly piled with papers, cds, pens and pencils, and all kinds of misc. paraphenelia. No, I take that back. Not piled. There are no piles. That would mean that there was at least some kind or order to the perpetual office mayhem and that the organizational process simply broke down in getting the piles filed away in appropriate places. No, this is more like a conglomerate of neglected, homeless waifs, waiting for me to take pity on them and tuck them in nice and neat somewhere they belong. I stare back at them...clueless. Not knowing where to begin. My "formal" livingroom currently has a half-opened umbrella on the sofa, several dress-ups on the floor, opened piano books that we haven't used in our house in two years, several empty shoeboxes and a grocery bag, an unopened box of Staples printer paper waiting to go back to the store, and a garbage bag of crumpled wrapping paper leftover from Christmas morning.

The thing is, deep down I'm an organized person. I have always enjoyed the deep-cleaning of drawers and closets, eliminating the unused and honing in on the simple and needful. So why then doesn't my house exemplify this? On some level, at some point, I lost it all. I gave up. I'm sure it has something to do with me running a house full of 3 young children (not to mention a husband whose strong point does not lie in the art of organization...) Many tell me to let it go. That it's not my season and to enjoy the season I'm in. Believe me...I've tried. But I'm starting to realize that there's no bliss like organized bliss. The kind of happiness that only comes whenwhere I can sit down in a quiet, clean house with a cup of hot cocoa and a good book. The kind where I can put my feet up, take in a deep breath, let it out again. The kind where the fingernail clippers are right there where I left them and I don't pull my hair out trying to find someone's birth certificate right