I had a crazy busy day, and now the house is a disaster. Well, a disaster in the same way last week’s thunderstorm was a hurricane. There are still traces from last night’s dinner in the kitchen, floors have attracted various debris from the weather outside, and laundry is, well, always in progress. But I was home alone with the kids tonight, and I didn’t want to spend it cleaning. I wanted to spend it with them. So I did. We snacked and talked and then we snuggled up on the couch and watched Toy Story 2, right up to the very end. I can’t remember the last time we’ve all watched a movie from start to finish with no interruptions, and with no electronics stealing our attention. It was beautiful.
And now they are in bed, well past each of their bedtimes, and I sit. Writing and reading. Not cleaning the house out of some neurotic obsession. I think that’s a good sign, right? That I’m not TOO obsessive? That I can draw a line somewhere, and be realistic about what matters and what doesn’t? After all, (paraphrased from the best movie quote of the night) “I can’t stop [them] from growing up, but I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”