Finding home within the mess
My story of all things chaos
Calm is a word that I wouldn’t often use to describe me. However, there is a deep state of calm that comes over me when my house is clean. There is something about everything smelling fresh and being in its place that brings me comfort. Although I hate the process of cleaning itself, I completely agree with the Clorox commercial that insists that people feel calmer from a clean home than getting a message (so glad to know that isn’t just me who feels that way!).
When we decided to renovate our house, I understood that messes were par for the course. After all, it was now an actual construction zone. What I didn’t fully grasp was just how messy it could get. Dust everywhere. Footprints everywhere. Nails everywhere. Wood chips everywhere. No matter how much I cleaned, they seemed to materialize from thin air. Least of all were the toilets that are forever etched within the recesses of my mind.
Having an active child, three cats, a hyper dog, plus a husband who works from home while going through a renovation is not for the faint of heart. What was supposed to be a six-month project is still going strong over a year later. Construction is bothersome for anyone, but my sanity was starting to wither away.
You can imagine my horror when my daughter asked me if a group of her friends could come over our house. It was bad enough that I was living in this danger zone, but now my daughter wanted to bring others into it? My initial instinct was to say no, but I thought about all the times I wanted to have people over my house. My mother required several weeks’ notice before a playdate to ensure that the typical chaotic state of our house was neatly tucked away.
I want my house to be a home for my daughter. I want my house to be a home for her friends. So, I threw caution to the wind and said yes, while explaining to parents exactly what they’d be signing up for should they agree.
It was quite a sight. Contractors. Girls. The pitter patter of shoes across the semi-floored floors. Plates of food being taken up and down the stairs —who was I kidding by saying they had to keep their mess contained?
I could barely process the pandemonium. Do I check on the girls? Do I check on my pets? Do I check if there is an unoccupied bathroom?
As I spun around trying to figure out which way to go, I listened to the sounds around me. The banging of hammers echoed almost as loudly as the sounds of laughter. That laughter seemed to fill every wall of the house. And in that moment, for the first time in a very long time, I felt steadied. Be still, my heart…
Was that a calm day for me? Hell to the no. Was that a liberating day for me? Words cannot describe the feeling of contentment and healing that washed over me. It cleansed me in a way that cleaning products cannot.
I’d be lying if I said I no longer cared about a clean house. You’ll still find me mop in hand, trying to deem any space as livable. A futile cause, as a package that was supposed to get delivered just got marked as vacant; it was unimaginable to the postal worker that someone was willingly here besides contractors.
When I start feeling agitated by the overabundance of disarray and all things wood chips, I remember the home I’ve created within the mess. It is a chaotic home, but the intangibles are what turn a house into a home.
And it is a home in all the ways that truly matter.
My home.
From my ever-cleaning heart to yours,
Randi