Perfection Isn’t in the Pillows

This past summer Dan and I invested in a new bedroom set. This collection of furniture is my “Big Girl Set.” The “We’ve Made It Set.” The “We Are Adults Set.” It consists of a beautiful mahogany sleigh bed, a top of the line mattress, and all of the matching pieces sit proudly without any water rings or “we’ve been moved about 1,000 different times” dings and scratches on them. When the furniture was delivered, I even went out and purchased beautiful new bedding to go on it with shades of aqua, ivory, and chocolate brown with the intention of creating, not just a sophisticated master bedroom, but also a serene retreat. I seriously love this set of inanimate objects.

When I made my bed this morning, I was sure to smooth out all of the wrinkles in the comforter and fluff all 10 pillows (Yes, you did read that correctly. This bed is worthy of a photo spread in Better Homes and Gardens). I straightened out all of the books on the nightstand, cracked open the windows a bit, sprayed a shot of Febreeze Air Effects to add that finishing touch and smiled a deeply satisfying smile as I looked around my sleeping sanctuary. Ahhhhhhhh……

Then the phone rang. I left the room to answer it and, within minutes, Caiden quickly ran into the bedroom, jumped on the bed like it was a WWE wrestling ring, tossed all of the pillows off of it (with the sound effect of “Crrrrr-waaaaash!” each time one hit the floor, I might add), and simply shrieked with toddler delight and enthusiasm as he destroyed the one spot in our home that is supposed to be "kid-free". My Ahhhhhhhh... had now turned into an Aaaaaaaah!!!! Out of pure exasperation, I actually caught myself saying, “UGH! Why can’t I have nice things with you around?!?!”

I want “nice things”. Not necessarily expensive things, but items that would make my house a home—a place that is warm and inviting. A place that you would want to come to visit, or, perhaps, even live in yourself. I want to have “nice things” around like scented-candles burning, beautiful linens throughout the place, matching plates in my cupboard, and rooms that are clutter-free.

Now flash forward to a “snapshot” of our home. The beds are made, but trampled upon (usually you can also find hidden toys under the pillows—aka: “tunnels”). Despite all honest efforts, there is always a dish in the sink, handprints on any shiny surface within 3 feet of the floorboards, pet hair floating around, and dust bunnies breeding in corners. There is the occasional work of art on the walls (crayon is Caiden’s preferred medium), while Hot Wheels, trains, and blocks become scattered throughout the ENTIRE place. (This is especially true in areas that I have just spent time “perfecting”. Apparently, clean spaces are actually magnetic force fields for toddlers.) Framed photographs are even no longer safe here and slowly migrate their way onto closet shelves where they will remain until my children no longer stand on the furniture, remove them from the walls, and point out everything and everyone that they see pictured. Obviously, our home is not a haven for “nice things”. Don't believe me? Take a look at the photographic evidence below:

(Exhibit A: "Mealtimes." Notice the plastic seat covers we purchased to put on the white upholstered chairs "Just In Case")

(Exhibit B: Let's Just Call This "Any Given Tuesday". Always be weary when you hear your child declare, "Momma! I cook!" )

(Exhibit C: "Craft-Time". Although this was supposed to be a messy project to begin with, finger painting turned out to be total body painting...)

Maintaining a beautiful home feels like a never-ending battle. I feel extra pressure to do so because I am a stay-at-home mom. Granted, this is a lot of self-inflicted pressure, but I do feel that since being at home is my job, somehow I am supposed to find the time to dust the chotchkies in the China cabinet between nursing boo-boos, planning dinner, running errands, and attending playdates. (Thank GOD for Curious George because without him, the little “perfection” that I do achieve would never be possible!) This pressure for attaining perfection is even more exacerbated now that I am in a nesting phase during these final weeks of pregnancy.

Now flashback to my wreck of a room this morning. Frustrated by the chaos of my home and my fruitless attempt of “niceness”, I decided to just leave the pillows on the bedroom floor and fix them later during naptime. (Hey, then they would look pretty for at least 2 hours of the day, right?) I called up a friend and made plans to meet up for a walk around the neighborhood. At the end of our walk, I allowed Caiden to get out of his wagon and run the rest of the way home (Don’t freak. He runs on the grass and it is the length of two houses. He gets a kick out of the independence though.). He stopped in our next-door-neighbor’s yard to pick “flowers” (aka: dandelions). He refused to move on to our own property until he had a big handful. Proud of himself, he raised the “flowers” to his nose, declared “Ooooh! Piddy!” and then marched them over to his Momma. It dawned on me then that it is a simple touch like THAT that makes my house a home. My son’s loving gesture of picking me a bouquet of dandelions was one of the “nicest things” in my life.

Later in the day, I was looking at my freshly picked spray that will sit on my nightstand tonight. Caiden was sitting quietly next to me coloring a picture of Lightening McQueen. He would occasionally peer up just to shoot me a smile or tell me what color he was using. I realized in that peaceful moment that a.) He doesn’t care what my house looks like. Home is where his Mom is, and, b.) I can have my “nice things” down the road when my children are all grown up and have moved out. But then, it won’t matter. In fact, it will probably break my heart because in the silence of my empty nest, when the pillows are all in place and the candles flicker and the tiny handprints have faded off of the mirrors, I will surely miss days like these.