When I walked into a friend’s house for the very first time — it was immaculate. Not a speck of dust anywhere, every gorgeous crystal hanging from the chandelier perfectly shining, and even the shag rug looked like it had been recently brushed and coiffed to perfection.
I instantly fell madly truly deeply in love with her home and wanted to move in. But who am I kidding. With my three lively girls — it would look like that for all of three minutes.
As much as I long for a house that looks like hers — perfect — the stage of life I’m in with small kids, I have to set myself up with realistic expectations.
And a perfect house is not one of those things.
It got me to thinking though — about my own imperfect house. Is it imperfect because toys are scattered across the floor. Or that there are little fingerprints on my walls. Or maybe it’s the hand drawn art that litters the front of our refrigerator.
It’s not imperfection — as much as my internal perfectionist wants to claim that it is. It’s the memories of my girls’ childhoods right here inside these very walls.
So perfection can take a backseat for a few more years. There’s a lot of living going on right now.
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And as always