18 April 2010

Good Enough

It's Sunday morning.
I'm sitting on my living room floor in my bathrobe drinking my second cup of coffee.
I washed my hair but I couldn't quite be bothered with shaving my legs.
I'm clean and awake and while I haven't managed to run a comb through my tangles, it still seems like I might.

My house isn't clean, but most of the toys are away, most of the laundry is done.  The dishwasher has been emptied and reloaded, I've concentrated all of my piles of paper and paperwork into one pile, in a corner.  I can't say the beds are made, but I picked all the blankets and pillows and things that go on beds and tossed them back where they belong.  I gathered up all the shoes from all the floors in all the different rooms and I threw them into the shoe closet.  I moved a whole bunch of questionable food from the fridge to the trash, and, since I then put the garbage by the front door, it seems reasonably likely that I'll actually take it out today.
I haven't swept or mopped or vacuumed, and I don't intend to, and I've decided that's okay.
I did clean my bathroom mirror.
And my kettle.
I think I'll do some mending tonight, but I'm not going to deal with my dress hem yet, because I hate hems, and I don't want to. 

I ate cheese puffs for breakfast.
I let Gabriel have letter pasta and chocolate milk, because that's what he wanted.  He ate in his Spider-Man tent, in his room, on the floor.
Last night he had scrambled eggs and toast for dinner, and I let him wear his swimsuit to bed.
He woke up at 6:30 this morning, saw that I was still asleep, and put on The Iron Giant so I could get up when I was ready.  I know because he told me so, to make sure that was okay.
Yes that's fine, I muttered into my pillow, my eyes still closed.
Then he fixed himself a graham cracker snack.
Right now he's taking a bubble bath with his pirate ship.
At 10 on a Sunday morning.
Breakfast for dinner and dinner for breakfast and bathtime in the middle of day.

There's still work to be done and bills to be paid and oh so many things to worry about.

I don't feel like I'm drowning and I don't feel angry and I have a new book that I'd like to read.
Today it doesn't matter that the dining room chairs are permanently converted into a blanket fort.  That we never eat dinner at the table, because we prefer to eat on the living room floor with a step stool for our plates.

Today our never ending lack of routine is good enough.
Today our silly, messy apartment, with its half-clean bathroom and its mostly-but-not-ever-all-the-way clean kitchen and its unmade beds is good enough.

Today we are good enough.