I like order. I find it calming. I like organizing things. It’s zen.
My house is the opposite of order. It’s a series of piles — books, toys, games, papers, random things that come through the door. I try to get control of it. I try to organize and give everything a place. But it’s a losing battle.
And I get embarrassed. I, honestly, sometimes don’t want people in the house. I don’t want them to witness the barely controlled chaos.
But I had an epiphany last night, while my son and his friend happily played together surrounded by entropy.
People don’t really care about this as much as I care about this.
And if they do care, if they do judge, they are just jerks. Lots of people’s houses are messy. It’s okay that it doesn’t look like a page from a Martha Stewart magazine in here.
Sure, I’ll still straighten up when guests come over, but I’m not going to worry about the mess anymore. And if someone drops by, I’ll just move the pile of stuffed animals from a chair and offer them a seat.
