The table has dried up bits of homemade play dough still on it from last night. Apparently I didn’t do a thorough job cleaning up while in the midst of the daily bedtime struggle.
This is my work desk.
My chair works double duty. First it’s a seat at the table, then later it’s rolled across the floor into the living room as a computer games chair. I wonder if it’s worth it to try and scrub out the stains from dirty fingers learning table manners.
This is my office.
I bring out my work materials. A tablet, keyboard, big visual calendar, colourful pens for the kinesthetically inclined, a Sailor Moon mug full of Rooibos Earl Grey, a vegan cookbook to elevate and protect my electronics from sudden spills, tarot cards for readings or inspiration, and whatever leftover childhood detritus is still on the table.
Today there is a small wooden pig puzzle piece. The background of that puzzle was missing for nearly three years. Such is my life.
It’s tempting to judge myself. To feel inferior to all the beautiful #bossmoms on social media who appear to have perfect children and a perfect work-life balance.
My life is far from perfect, and my balancing act is more like a teeter-totter, with some days falling heavy to one side.
It’s ok though, I know everything changes in time. Someday I will have a proper office, with silence and clean countertops. Someday my kids won’t want to interrupt my work, and finding balance will involve grieving how fast the kids have grown.
In moments like this I’m reminded to treasure my home, no matter the form. It’s the function, how it flows with my life, that matters most.
Our home is like soft play dough, fresh out of the pot with lumps and unmixed dye. Raw ingredients put together with a little loving effort transformed into something amazing: a life well lived.
I am grateful for my messy table.