Elusive Perfection

I'm not sure exactly why I'm about to post this picture, except to say that if I were to see this image in someone else's house, it would in a wierd way lift my spirits to see that someone else is imperfect like me. I seem to live with a subconscious belief that every other young mother's house is spotless 24/7. And why exactly do I believe this? Think back to the last playdate you had at your house. How much time did you spend cleaning beforehand? Especially if that mother had not been to your house before? In my case, not only will I try to make sure my house is spotless, I will even reorganize closets on the slight chance that someone will need to look in there. I act as if my home is a model house up for sale. I have in my head that every other mother, including the one coming over, lives in a spotless home nearly every second of her life. But unless this elusive, perfect mother has given birth to robots, I should know this is not true. I work throughout the day keeping up my house, cleaning to the best of my ability while still  maintaining a life outside of Pledge and bleach. But perfection is always just out of reach. I wake up in the morning, determined to maintain and end the day with completely clean rooms, no laundry to be dealt with, children engaged with their mother all day long, and no project left undone. Which means I go to bed disappointed. Every. Single. Night. And I'm sick of it. So, here is a picture I took the other day, just five minutes after the kids and I had completely cleaned and organized the playroom from top to bottom.

I am not exaggerating in the least. Seriously, this is what my children can do in five short minutes. And that is ok. That is ok. That... Is... O... K...

Let that sink in. It's ok that my children play, and have fun, and make a mess. It'll get cleaned up. And it will get messy again. And so will the kitchen. And the laundry. And the unmade beds. It's all fixable. And cleanable. Because one day, I will have a clean, spotless house, 24/7. And there won't be fingerprints on the wall. Or peanut butter on the ottamon. Or crumbs under the table. There will only be memories. Of the time when my children were small, and laughed, and played, and made messes, and reminded their mommy of what really matters. And it didn't include Pledge. Or bleach. Or even, perfection.