What matters matters

This weekend's challenge was to focus on the question: Does it matter? I'm not going to say that I brought it on myself, but....I may have brought it on myself. I practically begged the craziness out of the corners. And by "craziness" I, of course, mean Brynna Grace. Who, this weekend, I affectionally (not really) referred to as GoGo the dancing monkey.

GoGo has been asking to set up the Christmas tree since October. I held her off as long as I could but decided we would decorate before we leave for Thanksgiving so it's done when we return. I made the comment that we would ask Daddy to get the boxes down from the attic over the weekend. Apparently my child's understanding of a week is defined similarly to a college student, and the weekend now starts Thursday night. David didn't get his work clothes changed before she was dragging him up the attic ladder. They retrieved the few bins in that part of the attic, but he told her he would get the rest above the garage the next night. People. She sat on the tubs "to be close to them." Friday was the same song different verse. You'd think she was at the circus with the squeals and excitement, but no. Just going up and down the attic ladder. It was around this time that GoGo lost complete control of her senses. We started opening the boxes of Snow Village figurines, and she tore into them so quickly we had to take them away. She was allowed to look as we removed them from the packaging but that turned into talking to them, which led to them talking to each other, which led to them saying hi to each other, which meant glass and ceramic family heirlooms were banging into each other in the hands of a madwoman. Have I mentioned my OCD issues? Have we discussed that I need things to be done in order? DOES ANYTHING SOUND ORDERLY ABOUT THIS? No. I had to walk away. We all had to walk away. Fast forward to Saturday morning when I'm greeted with "Mommy, I don't need breakfast or milk today. Can we just set up the Christmas tree?"

I want it to be fun and exciting; I do. I want to take advantage of her excitement and celebrate her joy. But Oh. My. Gosh. We first had to finish Snow Village after abandoning ship the night before. A note about Snow Village for those uneducated as I was: these are hand-crafted ceramic buildings, people, etc that when set up together, form a village. They light up, you add "snow" and a winter wonderland forms in your living room. (Or in our case, David's office that will be out of use for the next month and a half. Sorry, babe.) David's family started collecting them when he was little. The boys got to pick buildings to add, and when we got married, David's mom split the collection between David and his brother. Not only are they expensive, but they've been a part of most every Christmas of David's life.

As "snow" was flying through the air (literally - she wanted it to snow in the room so she didn't just place the batting on the table, but threw it), I had to stop. One...Two...Breathe. Does it matter that we have to vacuum this room (again). No. Does it matter that Snow Village doesn't look the way I would have arranged and decorated it on my own? No.

After the Snow Village fiasco, we moved on to the tree. But before you can put ornaments on a tree, you have to put tinsel/ribbon/SOMETHING around it. Before you can do that, you have to place the star on top. Even after those things are done, you have to carefully unpack the ornaments. The past several years, I've done a "pretty" tree (matching ornaments, ribbon, etc) vs. one with sentimental ornaments. Before I could decide the theme/plan for the tree, Brynna had half the family ornaments spread on the coffee table. Does it matter what the tree looks like? No. Does it matter that I didn't get to plan a "vision" in my head before being in the midst of doing it? No. Does it matter there are no fancy bows, flowers or accessories? No.

While I was finishing the ribbon on the tree, Brynna moved on to looking through tubs and found the stockings. We have 4 stockings - David, me, Brynna, Miles (the dog). When I say she put them up for 45 minutes, I'm being conservative. She would hang them, step back and admire her work (out loud, of course), then she would taken them all down and repeat. Over and over and over. She tells me she was practicing. I have no idea for what. Is there a stocking hanging competition I don't know about? Is there a meet? Do you get a medal? I'm so confused. And so annoyed. I said it - annoyed. If you need state secrets from me, no need to get drastic. Just have someone do the same thing over and over in front of me. I'll crack like an egg. But when I took a step back (and away. I had to leave the room for a minute), I asked: does it matter? Is she hurting anything? No. Is it damaging the stockings, mantle or step ladder? No.

We eventually got ornaments on the tree, and that's about it. It goes against everything in me to post this for the world to see, but this is my living room currently. It's looked that way all weekend. When I posted the challenge to concentrate on ONE thing for TWO days, I meant theoretically. I didn't know I would be walking through the middle of chaos. (It's always easier to SAY you'll do it than actually DO it, huh?)

The question you're all wondering...did GoGo the monkey ever stop dancing? No. Does it matter? Yes. THAT does matter to me. Greatly. More than a tree or a messy house or family heirlooms, it matters that Brynna is excited for Christmas. It matters that she is free to express her excitement and joy. It matters that she knows I am willing to let her. It matters that she's so proud of the tree and Snow Village and tells everyone that "Mommy and I did it together!"

She doesn't look at this weekend and think it was hectic or irritating. She thinks it was fun. She thinks she created something beautiful. And she did.

That matters.

What matters to you? And/or what doesn't? 

Beautiful Messiness

I make no attempt to hide the fact that I'm a neat freak. My sister calls it OCD, but call it what you want, I'm a firm believer in the saying "everything HAS a place and everything IN it's place." But I don't want to live in a museum. I want our home to be a place where people feel welcomed and comfortable just the way they are. If you come over on any given Tuesday, my house is probably more "picked up" than most but not because I'm a tyrant. I'm organized because I work better that way.

You would assume that my office - the room where I spend most of my time, the space where I write and study - would be the most meticulous in the house. I'd probably prefer it that way, but there's just one thing. The room where I spend most of my time makes it the room where everyone spends most of their time. I don't know how many mornings I've looked up to realize that we are all - including the dog - in this one little space in this great big house that's supposed to be "mine." But moms don't have much we call our own, do we?

Mom's bed is the place where they run whey they're scared.
Mom's lap is the best spot to watch tv.
Mom's bathroom makes a better play area than the one upstairs with all the toys.
Mom's brush works better.
Mom's shoes are more fun.
Mom's plate has better food.
Mom's ear is the only one that matters when you need to be heard.
Mom's office makes the best art gallery.

This is my office.

The only reason the cabinets higher up aren't covered is because she hasn't yet climbed that high. Behind where I'm standing, the side of the tall cabinet where you enter the room - it's all filled with at least one layer of art. Beautiful, messy art. This was not the vision I had for this space. But this space gives me better vision. Because it reminds me to be thankful for even the most messy parts of life because in the hand of an Artist...it's beautiful.

Leave a comment and tell me what's beautifully messy in your world.

Home Project: Wall of Art

I've had this idea for awhile, and this weekend my sweet husband helped make it a reality. (He's required both for heavy lifting and precise measurements. I get distracted, start "eyeballing"...it spirals out of control. But I digress.) I wanted to frame some of Brynna's artwork in our entry hall. I thought it'd be a cute idea. It turned out to be way more than that.

I bought frames especially designed for kids' artwork so you can easily add more, replace, etc. They are advertised as being a way to keep their masterpieces over time and "build self esteem." I thought that an interesting marketing technique, and as the day has gone on, I couldn't agree more. I love the way it looks. I love that we will be able to see and enjoy Brynna's art as she grows and develops. Most importantly, though, I love the way her face lit up when she walked downstairs and it was completed. I love that she will never doubt how much we believe in her. When I say she is capable and creative she'll need only look as far as that wall for reassurance. She will have a tangible reminder that I love what she does and who she is enough to display it for all to see.

I caught myself staring into the hall all day today. How often do we do that? How often do they bring something home that - let's be honest - we have no idea what it's supposed to be? We look at it, praise them and then as soon as they are distracted, we shove it in a drawer (or worse. Don't feel bad. More than one of BG's masterpieces has met File 13.). But how often do we sit and stare at what they've done? How often do we take a moment of quiet and contemplate that the tiny little being that couldn't hold her head up, can write letters and paint with a paintbrush?

This began as a cute project idea but has become so much more. It is my silent nod of encouragement when Brynna wonders if what she does is good enough. It is my place to watch my baby grow into a big girl. It is more than a wall of art. It is a wall where I can remember and be grateful.

Daydreaming

I'm going to warn you now.  This is a bit weird.  I can admit it.  I'm not afraid.

I'm sitting at church working on a few last minute things before our meeting about small groups and I'm daydreaming...about my label maker.  I seriously just "woke up" from a happy little dream with a smile on my face.  I may be the only one, but I have a constant To Do list running in my head. It's like a program that runs in the background of whatever else I'm doing. And it keeps growing - new things pile on top of things I was going to do but didn't complete before the last refresh. (You know...when you start a clean page so it feels totally new but really you just transfer over all the stuff not marked off from last week...) Anyway. On that list is my shoes. My shoes are arranged in individual plastic containers, arranged by color and style.  (I have never been silent about my OCD tendencies.)  I have been planning to label each container but haven't yet done it.

In my daydream, they were all perfectly labeled and my closet was sparkly clean (not a Dr. Seuss book or Strawberry Shortcake in sight).

It was beautiful.

So pretty.

(In my defense, I said it was weird.  Don't say I didn't warn you.)

Moving Across the Country: Day 11

I generally have a strict 3-5 day policy.  When moving into a new home, I give myself 3-5 days of really hard work and long hours so that at the end of that time, my house is a home.  We can go about the business of life.  No stepping around boxes or digging to find what you need.  You may have to relearn which cabinet holds the forks, but rest assured, the fork is in one of the drawers.  Today, I am outside the 3-5 day sweet spot.  Around Day 7 I almost broke out in hives.  You can imagine how I'm fairing at Day 11.  I did not account for a few differences in this move as compared to others.

1.  I underestimated the lack of progress that can be made when one is attempting to organize a bathroom with the "help" of a 2 year old.  I take the item out of the box, set it on the counter and reach for the next item.  I turn around to find the first item (a container of baby wipes) opened and approximately 715 wipes being used to clean the step stool and toilet because apparently they were "yucky".  I halt all progress to clean up previously described mess and distract adorable but mischievous toddler.  I walk back by the bathroom 2 hours later, trip over the books stacked along the wall and wonder aloud, "Whose house is this?"

2.  I didn't add time for organizing and reorganizing just to get the closet door to close.  I have downsized before but I had a storage unit that time.  When we sold our first house to move to a high-rise apartment, we cut our living space in half.  We also rented a storage unit so things that wouldn't fit found a nice, new climate-controlled home.  There's no storage unit.  In fact, there's barely a storage closet.  And it's not climate-controlled.  There's a garage, but we are not the fill-up-the-garage-so-a-car-won't-fit people.  That leaves me with the large task of fitting furniture, fixtures, appliances and accessories from a 4 bedroom, 3 bathroom 3,400 sq. ft. house into a 2,000 sq. ft. townhouse.  My sofa was so big they had to take the hinges off the door to get it in the basement!  I need a new name for what I'm doing here.  This is not downsizing.  When I get a kitchen organized so that it fits the contents that once spread into 3 rooms, I'm working magic, people!

3.  I may have slightly denied reality  We aren't new to moving - in our 8 years in Dallas, we lived in 4 different places.  Each time we had two aces in our corner - we have amazing friends who, for the payment of pizza and a returned favor would carry just about anything we asked, and our families lived within driving distance.  When we moved into the high-rise, my dad loaded all David's lawn mowing equipment in the back of his truck and stored it until we were ready for it again.  When we moved into a house sporting the worst shades of hunter green and burnt orange you can imagine, we barely had to ask and dozens of people came to help.  This is different.  There are no painting parties.  No one is helping to line shelves or wipe down cabinets before towels are stacked there.  Mom and Dad left with only their luggage.  David helps when he's not at work, but for most of the week, I'm a one-woman wrecking crew (with a very short, very blonde sidekick, of course).

All that said, you'd think I would have adjusted my expectations, right?  You would think that instead of allowing 3-5 days, I'd give myself a month or at minimum a few weeks.  Those would be the decisions of someone far less obsessive than I.  No, there was no modified time table.  There's just a girl who at Day 11 is annoyed because those books are still in the hall.  But she has a killer plan for where to put them...tomorrow.