Henry and Goose: Imperfections

We have lived in our house for 10 and a half years. It is a comfortable house - a split level built in 1964 - in an old neighborhood about 10 miles away from the city. I fell in love with our house the moment our good friend (who was also our realtor) drove us up the driveway.

This is what it looked like tonight as I drove home from the office.

It's not a particularly spectacular house. It certainly is much more modest than many of my friends' and colleagues' homes. Goose reminds me of this every time she is invited to one of her classmates' homes for a birthday party. She bemoans the fact that she doesn't have her own bathroom. Poor thing.

I admit that many times I go to other people's homes, I have to fight my own jealous urges. Especially when I see that their bathrooms are bigger than our *master* bedroom. My own bathroom, still in its original purple tile glory, leaves much to be desired. Especially since Henry has decided that picking the tiles off of the floor is more fun than just about anything in the world.

I can't believe I have the courage to post this pic.

And my friends who have walk in closets? I cannot even fathom. My poor closet is crammed so tight that it takes me 20 minutes to find an outfit each morning.

Obviously, I didn't "stage" this pic. You are seeing my closet in all of its current glory.

Courage I say.

Anyway. Sometimes I am jealous not only by the size of their homes, but by the fact that they are so put together. So grown up. So clean. Not a thing out of place. They certainly don't have exersaucers and hula hoops on their back porch.

And they don't have bottles drying on a rack next to their fancy Kitchen Aid appliances.

They also don't have band-aids on their bathroom cabinets.

Or gum under their lampshades.

And don't even get me started on Whit's Man Cave.

I apologize to everyone who dares to walk downstairs to the man lair -- as it is entirely Whit's area and I bear no responsibility for its condition.

No. The other houses don't have these imperfections. Mine does. And I have lived with these imperfections for so long that I don't even notice them. Much. Until, of course, I go to one of these aforementioned totally put together houses.

And then I feel a little sorry for myself. Because my house is not perfect. It is full of these imperfections. These "blemishes" that I either cannot change because of the limitations of my house or am too exhausted to change because of the limitations of my schedule.

After wallowing in self pity for awhile (which usually involves a bag of Cheetohs and a tub of ice cream), I take a second look at my house.

And suddenly, I find comfort in those imperfections.

I realize that there will come a day when teddy bears wearing tiaras aren't always present.

I will miss the Disney ears on the dresser.

[Again, you can tell that this is not a staged photo or I would have at least shut the dang dresser drawer.]

I can't imagine that there will come a time when my children's bathtub isn't full of toys - many of which bear the teeth marks of my teething son.