My mother drilled into my head the significance of waking each morning to find a clean house. She would spend as much time as it took the evening before straightening each living room pillow, putting every toy, book, shoe, sock, backpack, etc. back into its place before finally going to bed. I never realized the value of any of it. I'd look at my poor mother, falling asleep on the couch by 8:30 pm and wonder why she didn't just go to bed if she was so exhausted.
I GET IT NOW. There is absolutely nothing more lovely than getting up in the morning, warm sunlight shining through the cheap apartment blinds, birds chirping outside, last night's dreams still fresh in your mind, your neck kink-free (because for once you didn't sleep like an acrobat), hearing your child through the baby monitor, chattering away at his fish, stuffed animals, life itself (who really knows?)...Then you reach that tornado-demolished area that exists beyond your bedroom door. The area of your home the little one-year-old (ours is affectionately called The Destructor - You have to say it in your best Monster Truck advertiser voice to get the full effect.) systematically destroys in a matter of 2.2 minutes.
If I had only taken my mother's words to heart...
I could have thoroughly enjoyed that 2.2 minutes this morning as I watched that glorious state of CLEAN be demolished before my very eyes.
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