My Home Is Not My Own

My home is not my own. It’s arranged, and decorated to accommodate an 18 month-old boy.

Or a pet monkey.

It’s kind of the same thing.

At any moment of the day there are toys scattered across the floor in almost every room of the house. It doesn’t matter how many times I pick them up, and stuff them back in their storage places. Somehow they crawl out a few minutes later.

All the furniture is protected with washable slipcovers. The carpet gets steamed at least once a month.

The cupboards and drawers in the kitchen are locked down like a maximum security prison. I bypass 15 different child safety locks just to make dinner every night.

The dining chairs rest upside down on the dining table, unless we’re eating, to prevent climbing and tipping and the inevitable injuries.

The ladder that reaches to the top of my oldest’s loft bed is removed, and put away during the day. This is an extra safety precaution in addition to keeping most of the interior doors shut all day.

All the outlet covers that aren’t in use are filled with safety plugs. Safety plugs that are almost impossible to remove without the help of a stainless steel kitchen knife, which I’m sure is a “shocking” accident waiting to happen.

The phone is on top of the refrigerator, which makes it almost impossible to see if we have any messages.

Thank goodness there’s a door at the top of the stairs that lead to basement. Soon it will need a safety cover on the door knob.

Any decorative items are placed high up on shelves. Shelves that are screwed to the wall, and can’t be reached by climbing.

I dream of a day I can vacuum the carpet without first moving a mountain of toys out of the way. I dream of day I can just pull the cupboard door open, and grab a pot without unlocking and re-locking it.

Our house has an open floor plan which is wonderful, and modern, and convenient, and conducive to close family living.

Unless you have small children.

The mess easily makes it’s way from the living room to the kitchen, and down the hall.

I also fantasize about living in one of those old Victorian houses with a door on every room, even the living areas. Can you imagine the convenience? The kitchen is a mess, and unexpected guests arrive. All you do is close the door. In our house the main entrance is through the kitchen. No hiding that mess from visitors.

Someday the toys will all be packed in boxes, and stored in the attic. Someday I’ll have time to clean the kitchen. Someday my cupboards will be easily accessible.

Someday we’ll move some large piece of furniture that only gets cleaned under once every decade, and way underneath we’ll find a Matchbox car long ago forgotten. Tears will form at the memories of the sweet little boys that lost that car. Boys now grown, and driving real cars. And I’ll miss these Mommie Daze.

But oh my word! If I step on ONE MORE wooden block on the way to the bathroom in my bare feet at 3 a.m…

Photo used courtesy of Creative Commons License.