I look around the house that I am staying at, and I smile. Not because my friend and her mother have opened up their home to me for the time being, but because there are children in this house, and the house looks as there are children in it. What do I mean?
When I was growing up, any sign of life in a home was considered a mess and needed to be cleaned. My parents prided on, what I came to call “No-one-lives-here clean”. Everything was dusted, vacuumed, and in its place. There was no clutter, no magazines on coffee tables, and no cups or glasses from the night before. It was always ready for company, and, even thought I knew we lived there, it made me nervous, and a little scared to be a kid in there. I was always afraid there was someone ready to ask me if I intended to leave toys or shoes where I had laid them.
Later, my mom would come to visit the house I lived in with my ex, and was comfortable in it with the clutter. I had attained my “lived-in clean”. The house was clean, but it had the magazines, cups (not many, just one or two), and there were shoes behind the couch. My kind of clean meant that I was moving things to dust, and wiping things off, but it was my clean. I always thought that it was just too much trouble to maintain my mom’s kind of clean.
So, here I am, in my friend’s home, enjoying the fact that kids live here, and that Amanda’s clean is my kind of clean.
Until Next Time, God Bless.