The story my floor is telling

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My living room floor is littered with candy from a Valentine's Day care package, farm animals abandoned near the barn, an elaborate garage built for Lightning McQueen (who, by the way, has magical powers to sleep all day and all night in there, given that he has some "sleep songs" sung to him every now and then), some clean laundry that's giving me the eye for typing instead of folding, a homemade paper crocodile that's giving me the creeps with it's unblinking stare, and about 18 other things tucked into bookshelves, under ottomans, and inside other toys--with good reason, of course.

In my mind, my floor is evidence of some bad, out-of-control week because I feel like a bad, out-of-control mama a lot of the time, but as I write, that floor of mine is sounding pretty fun (except for the laundry part). Despite one of my kids being awake for the day at 4:30 (or before!) every morning this week (read: exhausted mama who's kicking on Jesus and caffeine, in that order), their lives and mine are pretty darn great. As my friend says, "We're living the dream!" And we are.

So we had to stay home all week because we're sick. So we're running on fumes. So we maybe shouldn't be operating machinery because we're that tired. But our days are good, filled with playing and painting and reading and chasing and singing made up songs. Truthfully, there are lots of moments when I'd rather be somewhere else or do something else; sometimes I go to the bathroom when I don't actually need to pee just to have a minute to myself, and even then I see the little fingers under the door (or the forceful kick, thank you toddler boy).

But my floor tells a different story, one full of life and happiness, and it's funny because my insides don't feel lively and happy right now. They're just surviving, deciding what's absolutely necessary to make it to the next meal, to make it to whenever it is that I can sleep. But I'm glad to see that the external is coming out differently, which means somewhere in my get-me-out insides there's life. Because it's spilling out--onto my floors, into my car, under my couch. And I've maybe never been so grateful for the glorious mess staring back at me. 

But there's still the laundry, so, you know, waxing eloquent about the mundane has to stop somewhere. On to folding.