Sofa Smackdown

Home decor is not my strong suit.

This is not to say that I don't appreciate or desire a tastefully appointed home; believe me, I have drooled my way through many a Homearama and historical home tour.

While I love walking through well-designed homes and imagining how fantastic it would be to own such a place - both functional and beautiful - I also have a deep appreciation for the little things in life.

Like actually paying the mortgage and having real food in the refrigerator.

There was a time, in those long ago years before kids, when I imagined what our future family home would look like. I never pictured it as a grand manse but I never pictured crayon on the walls or a wee little abandoned poop on the floor, either.

{It happened once, at our last house, and none of them would cop to it; yet another stellar day in my parenting experience.}

Now that I've lived the dream that is mommying, from the post-partum high tide of breast milk while I slept {I woke up drenched, even my hair} to public meltdowns by my toddlers that left me crying {which is why watching Supernanny makes me visibly twitchy}, I know that the only way we'd have a home that looked like something from a magazine would be if we didn't actually live in it.

So I'm pretty laissez-faire about the house, as much as an OCD neat freak with three kids and two dogs can be. It helps that I hate housework; unfortunately for me, since I became a mom I've discovered that I hate a mess more than I hate cleaning.

The irony kills me, or at least that's what I tell myself when I'm wiping the walls behind the toilet yet again.

{Note to my friend Emily: enjoy the diaper years with your weeboy; aiming is a learned skill with a technical difficulty similar to whittling a duck out of an oak branch.}

But while I can willfully ignore the six loads of clean and folded clothes that sit in temporary custody on top of my long dresser, waiting for the day when they'll be released back into the wilds of my kids closets and drawers, and while I look at the pawprints that make their way onto the floors as Rorschach patterns, I do get seriously ticked when the line between mess and destruction is crossed.

A mess wastes my time but destruction wastes our money.

Last night, little Tom got a hold of the scissors that his big brother Huck had been using in - of all places - the bathroom to cut and create little Batman shooters (I am paraphrasing Huck here; bear with me).

While no one was looking, Tom grabbed them off the counter and took them to the couch, the big sectional that his tightwad mother hemmed and hawed about buying three years ago {because, dude, don't you think the kids and dogs are just going to TRASH it?}, and poked one end of the scissors through one of the cushions, making a tiny little rip.

I was not pleased.

But I didn't have time to stay and fume; no, I took my fury on the road. Becky had gymnastics and now I had a new gripe to grind my teeth to while I ran on the indoor track. Off we headed to the Y with me doing deep breathing exercises after I realized that my driving was straight out of The Dukes of Hazard.

After dropping Becky at her gymnastics class, I stopped in the locker room to stash our stuff.

And this is when I had one of those epiphany-like moments where The Great Almighty reaches down and smacks me one upside my head.

There were three women swapping stories in the locker room, but not typical mom stories or work stories or the never-ending venting about men stories. No, these were stories from the front lines of the Divorce War, and I heard more ugliness than I needed to know.

I locked my bag and made a beeline for the door saying a quick and silent Thank You God for the blessing of being married to my best friend.

And I ran my miles with a lighter heart; some things matter and some just don't.

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