A clean house was the first thing to go once our son was born, right after long showers and seven consecutive hours of sleep each night. Somewhere in the midst of sleep deprivation and projectile vomiting (the baby, not me), I stopped caring about beautifully made beds and perfectly polished sink faucets.
It was a slow process, that releasing of cleanliness and order. I started making the bed a few times a week instead of every day, and sometimes I even went to sleep with dishes in the sink. I allowed dust to collect on the shelves in our bedroom and laundry to pile high on top of the washing machine.
Gradually, little by little and day by day, I let go of something else.
Our house became more lived in, more relatable, more us. There were signs of life everywhere—from burp cloths on the coffee table to sleep training books carelessly tossed aside on the couch. The kitchen counter was often covered in a mixture of toast crumbs and droplets of pureed banana, sticky remnants that had fallen off the spoon during transition from blender to baby bowl.
People lived in our house—and for the first time—it appeared that way. There were marks of three lives in every single room: momma, daddy, and baby.
I started to embrace it, that letting go of cleanliness and order. I felt freedom in not washing a dish three seconds after I finished using it. I found liberty in smudge marks on the mirror and lint on top of the dresser...
Click here to read the rest over at Darling Magazine! It's my first time writing for them and I'd like to do it again so if this story resonates with you, would you mind leaving a comment over there to show me some love? Thank you!