What a Mess

I never really considered myself domestic or "wifey." But as soon as we got home from the honeymoon--something just clicked. Actually, I think it snapped. A spring in my chest started tightening and I found myself obsessing over stuff like dirt on the baseboards, crumbs on the kitchen counter, hair in the sink, what to cook for dinner, how to learn how to cook what I want to cook for dinner. I actually cried because I couldn't keep up with the laundry. One of the things we were most looking forward to about married life was opening our home to our friends. But, I didn't want anyone to come over and see the mess. The unpacked boxes and suitcases, the hairy sinks, the disorder, the fact that we hadn't had clean underpants in three days.

I couldn't understand where these feelings were coming from. It felt so outdated--all this pressure to be Donna Reed in 2006. I mean, I don't even own an apron. Where were the feelings coming from? Turns out, it was me. It was my pride. I was turning the role of perfect wife and perfect home into an idol. My pride wanted to keep people out until I felt I had all my domestic ducks in a row. It was stifling. My loving husband showed me this...there's freedom in letting people into your mess. They really don't care. They'll eat pizza off of paper plates. They'll remember the good conversation, not the fact that they could write their names in the dust on the kitchen table.

There's freedom in letting someone else in on your mess. Trouble is, I've always been a sweep it under the carpet kind of girl. But, I guess I'm learning that it's a beautiful thing to be loved and accepted for who you are, dust balls and all.