The picture above is not my house. I don’t know whose it is, but I am very glad it’s not mine. I do, however, see evidence of kids when I walk from room to room in my home.
The little black sneakers by the front door are Joshua’s. Caleb and Reece have left the remains of their art project under the kitchen table. The toy vehicles in various locations were forgotten by Nikolas. The hair clip is Emily’s. Lots and lots of fingerprints on the window were placed there by Elijah. A tiny sock slipped from Jai’s foot.
There are days when I think that I would like my house to be perfectly clean, professionally decorated, beautifully showcased. The kind of house where people gape in awe when they walk in the door, admiring such a wondrous sight of elegance. But those thoughts of mine are usually short-lived.
Our house is a home. We live here. I mean, really live here. It’s comfortable and welcoming and peaceful. Our grandchildren love to visit and we don’t care if they leave remnants. We actually like it when they do because it means they have come and they have had fun being with us. And it means they will come back.
So I smile when I see the playpen at the top of the stairs, knowing Eli will sleep in it soon. I don’t bother to move the huge stuffed elephant because Nik will need it for a small measure of comfort at some point. I leave the books in the family room for Emily to read. The Legos continue to be easily accessible for Reece to build his next cool thing. The beyblades pieces are on the counter for Caleb and Josh’s next battle. And a fuzzy blanket is ready for Jairus to nap.
The parents of our grandchildren have commented that since the little ones have comes along, they get all the attention now.
Could it be true?