"I'll light the fire. And you place the flowers in the jar that you bought today."

I got my first job when I was 14. I remember there was some question about the legality of me working as a waitress at that age. And OY, was I awful! I was too young. After quitting that first job in abject shame over my total inadequacy as a waitress I went on to a 1000 other jobs. There was basically never a time from age 14 to September 1998 at age 31 when I quit my job as a nanny to go home and await the birth of my first child, that I was unemployed. Eventually I mastered the arts of waitressing, bar tending, dental assisting, and nannying. Throw in some midwifery on the side and professional cooking. I'm hell on a line--fast, Baby, fast! And I'm not a bad prep cook, either. 

The better part of most of those jobs was daydreaming about what I would do when I got home. Perhaps light a fire and make dinner for my husband. So that when he walked in the house he might have the opportunity to think to himself: my wife rocks! Or perhaps draw a bath, light some candles, and admire a glass of wine sweating on the side of the tub as I sank into frothy warm bubbles. Or perhaps rearrange my living room furniture in a more pleasing way while cleaning every inch of the floor underneath. When I had an outside job, my house was never kept perfectly but almost always perfectly cozy, warm, thoughtful, and clean enough. 

"Such a cosy room. The windows are illuminated by the sunshine through them, fiery gems for you."

Being home with my children became my job. I've never had a more difficult or gratifying job. And at first I wanted to keep everything as adorable and precious as I did before I had kids. More adorable and precious, actually, because of course now babies were involved. And a whole lot of the time our world looked good. Toys were organized sometimes, floors were cleaned fanatically while they learned to crawl, ditto for tubs which remained spotless for fat bottoms. I scrubbed and arranged and stocked low shelves full of high quality art supplies. Stacks of books became decor. Cooking was simplified nearly to the point of weeping--how many boiled lima beans can one man eat? Laundry, always clean never folded, lived in a mountain on the couch. And I believe I alone know the secret of getting that pee-pee smell completely out of the bathroom. 

"Our house is a very, very fine house, with two cats in the yard."

Do you know what happens over time, if you work from home 24 hours a day? It all becomes invisible. Most of the corners of my rooms have cobwebs. Walls are splattered with dirt and fingerprints. Window sills are brown and furry. Toilet bowls? Ugh! Our adult shower is moldy. Stuff gets caked onto stuff and stays there. Empty spaces accumulate, mysteriously and nefariously--insidiously.

Yesterday I told a friend these things are beneath me. Then I sat there and felt guilty about saying such a thing. These things are not beneath me at all. These things are my job. But thinking about inane details does one of two things to a person living in one space 24 hours a day. It either makes you obsessive or very boring. Noticing this minutia is beneath my attention because none of it matters very much. Sure, all of it matters a little bit and must be kept in balance for health as well as self esteem, but only in balance.

My attention is full of other details and questions: what makes children grow smart and kind? What's for dinner other than lima beans? What if we grow more of our own food? The light has quickened in my son's eyes, why? My daughter needs something more, what? Can I give my children a richer perspective of now, in the future, if I write our life down? Knitting is good. Willow caning is perfectly imperfect, does life create metaphor intentionally and is that God at work? Stuff like that. 

Ever notice how it feels to walk into a magazine worthy home? It feels lovely at first glance. Then it feels sterile. Then it feels sort of dark when I begin wondering what these people actually care about, if all their time is sunk into caring for material objects. Are they thinking shiny matters? Does shiny matter? Usually, I can't get back to my own dust bunnies fast enough. And I'm sorry if that sounds judgmental. But honestly, who cares about mud on the walls when you could be holding a napping cat, hearing your own heart whisper, and protecting sacred space for your children? 

"Come to me now and rest your head for just five minutes." Because five minutes from now we'll all grow up, figure out what matters, and get on with the good life. My good life isn't shiny, it isn't as clean as it used to be, but it is full of love, ideas, and space to create.