Disorganized Housewives 🏡

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I'm disorganized. I'm millennial. It bothers me.

Since pregnancy, I've consistently stopped cleaning, tidying, grooming, or decorating. I can't be blamed. Liam, my sweet son, made it greatly impossible to bend down to load dryers, pick up items off of the floor, shave legs, or bend over the couch to nail a framed picture on the wall. Not much has changed for me since two years ago when I was in my second trimester. 

When you visit, you'll unashamedly see dishes in the sink. Not me. I'll be blushing. You'll joke and smile that it's totally normal. All the while I'm holding back tears of fearing you'll never return.

The next room of torture (after your nose clears from the off-smelling kitchen) will be the living room. The random piles of junk. The popcorn in the floor. Yes, stuck in the carpet. The cat will be scratching the living daylights out of our beloved couch. I might spray him with water to train him to stop. He won't. You'll giggle politely and say how cute he is. Thanks! 

You'll politely ask to use the bathroom, since you can't stand the thought of what will happen next and need to take a moment. Our little bathroom will accommodate you! It's perfect for reinforcing your rational fear of the unknown environment.

I haven't cleaned it in a week. Every weekend is bathroom cleaning, but you are visiting on Friday. Sorry. It's the one thing I happen to organize around in my schedule. Great for me, not so much for you. To your great joy, the toilet looks a decade has passed since it was used. The sink is covered in little hair and bar soap scum. Thankfully you can sit on the toilet and wash your hands at the same time. It's the size of an outhouse.

You meet me back in the living room. To clear your mind of the disgust you're in, you compliment me on a skirt I'm wearing. I look down. I see I haven't shaved since summer. It's December. I blush and say thank you, and our eyes meet. I look away and ask if you'd like to sit down.

Once we're done sharing about our common human experiences, I mention how I miss decorating. After you ask me to explain, I gesture towards my son playing with his trains. I look back to see if you understand before I continue. Your eyes are blank. I exhale. Decorating has become a luxury since getting pregnant because it takes time and energy that I need for a long list of other priorities. You seem to get it but it's obvious we're getting to something deeper. 

It's at this point you learn I can't do everything I'd like to. I'm doing the best I can. And I learn that seeing things from a guest's point of view is humbling, relieving, and a reality check. I can do better in time, even if it takes longer than someone would like. Healing is from the inside out and we both know that the end result may be unseen. Not only is being human hard, but also our common ground. I offer you a cup of coffee or tea. We sip and keep on walking on that ground we covered. 

We are not so different after all.

God has shown me how good He is whenever I invite people in. Not always inside my home, but on a walk. Or a conversation at church. It's the invitation to others that matters more to me now. I may never get it in return, but I can reach them in a way only I can. If you wait for someone else to invite them so you don't feel guilty, or let them invite you first, you miss the great opportunity to be hospitable. 

Life is an emergency room. We all walk through with our fear, pain, impatience, and helplessness. Heaven will be without those things, but until then we are walking through hell in one way or the other. Be like a nurse or a doctor and let your hands do no harm. Even if the dishes end up piling up.

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