Sad news. It turns out that Will and I are just messy clutter-full people. It’s us. We’re the problem.
We’re on vacation (pointing this out just in case I didn’t brag about it enough in previous posts). To get here, we packed a car full of stuff, but it wasn’t too full. A suitcase for us, one for Wildling (which held an obscene amount of clothing since she likes to change 4-5 times per day) and one for Mellow which mostly contained cloth diapers. A couple of bags. Some groceries. The stroller. Books for us. That’s it. Our car was not jam-packed.
Yet somehow, our vacation condo (note: we rent, we don’t own one; that would be worse) is now covered in clutter and detritus. This was a nice place, very tastefully decorated, with nice clean furniture and minimal knick-knacks (all of which I moved out of Mellow’s reach as soon as we walked in the door). Now it’s just a mess, with stuff everywhere. The first evening we were here, I unpacked, I hung up and put away our clothes (except for Wildling’s, which I shoved under a bedroom bench so she could access them easily), I found a place for everything else. And now it’s scattered, like some kind of tidal wave of crap washed over this place and dropped dishes and shoes and empty bags and wet swimsuits and baby chew toys everywhere.
What sucks about this is that it means I can’t blame anything but Will and I for our mess at home. I always feel like yes, it’s messy, yes, it’s so cluttered it drives me insane, but there’s a real reason for that, and as soon as the kitchen remodel is done, or as soon as I have time to sort that stack of papers, or as soon as Mellow outgrows that jumparoo, then it will all be magically clean and organized and we’ll have the clutter-free life we
deserve desperately want. And now I understand that isn’t true and we are doomed to a life of mess. It’s us. We’re the clutterbugs. Yes, I just called us clutterbugs. I made that word up just now (though I bet if I bother to search, google will tell me I’m not very original).