This past weekend I visited my bestest, dearest friend from high school. She recently moved into the same town, just down the road.
It's just her and her husband, their two cats and a dog.
Her house is an oasis.
It is quiet and clean. There are breakable items in low places. Glass on the bottom shelf! There are candles on the coffee table and an actual table runner, with tassels that hang over the edge, right at crawling-baby eye level. She has coffee table books on the table that don't actually have coffee stains on them. Or milk. Or juice.
(I recall actually spending $80 on a coffee table art book once. $80.00 Obviously, before children, my priorities were a bit different...)
There aren't permenant marker drawings on the sofa. There aren't covers on the outlets or baby gates on the stairs. You don't have to struggle for 5 minutes with child proof locks on the door knobs. You turn the knob and the door opens right up! It's amazing. There aren't little bits of food stuck to the wall next to the dining room table. No sippy cups laying on their sides, slowly leaking into the sofa cushions. The kitchen floor is not sticky.
It's beautiful. It's like a show home.
Then there's mine.
I know. Shameful, isn't it? I could claim that it's not really a picture of our playroom, but that would be stretching the truth a bit. Or, um, an outright, blatant lie.
I suppose the kids and I will have to pick it up sometime...
Just not today.