The Decorating Magazines Have Done Me No Favors

The other day, I was mopping my kitchen floor. I’m not a big fan of mopping. Nor am I a big fan of dirty kitchen floors. It had been awhile, so I was mopping. And thinking. About dirty floors.

I wondered how my dirty floor compared to the floors of other people. Why is it, I always assume my mess is worse than everyone else’s? My floors dirtier, my junk drawers junkier, my dumping spot dumpier.

(At this point in the post, I could take this in a very spiritual direction and speak all figuratively and stuff. But I’m seriously sticking with literal messes.)

As I mopped, I remembered a post I read by The Nester a few days prior (I’ll give you that link in a minute) where she discussed dirt and mess and lived-in homes. The Nesting Place is one of my favorite blogs, for many reasons, not the least of which is her tag line and decorating philosophy: It doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful.


And since I’ve been candid about my struggles with perfectionism, you understand why I love her so. Because more than just home decorating, “It doesn’t have to be perfect to be beautiful” is a philosophy I need to carry around in my heart every day, about everything.


So, in the Nester’s post she included this little You Tube video. Of messy houses. That was it. Just ordinary pictures taken by ordinary blog readers on an ordinary day of their ordinary messes. Not the kind of thing you ever see on a home-decorating blog. Unless it is the “before” picture—the way a house used to look before the improvement. The way a house shouldn’t look.

But The Nester didn’t display the messy-house pictures that way. She declared the messes wonderful and beautiful.  God bless The Nester.

And as I read her post, I cried.

I wasn’t expecting tears. I mean, MY mess sometimes produces tears . God knows, I’ve walked into a trashed bedroom and completely lost it. But why should little shoes cluttering the steps of other homes (of people I’ve never met) produce tears? That’s just silly.

And it occurred to me that when I look at THEIR messes, I see life and activity and love.

Little shoes on the stairs mean little people are home, barefoot.


Dirty dishes in the sink mean a family is fed.


Unmade beds mean kids are awake and alive.


Dirty laundry means people played catch and rode bikes and wrestled on the floor.

And it occurred to me that when I look at MY mess—shoes on the floor, dirty dishes in the sink, unmade beds, dirty laundry—I don’t see life…I just see dirt.



God, please help me see life, not dirt.



And it occurred to me that just the day before, we went around our family dinner table sharing something each of us loved about the others around the table. And the resounding theme about me was my ability to clean things well. I suppose there are worse things , but that’s really not the prominent legacy I hope to leave my children. Plus, you’d think with all the cleaning talent I possess, my house would be in great shape. But most of the time, my house just feels sort of messy and dirty. Like the “before” picture in a magazine. The way the house “shouldn’t” look.


And it occurred to me that maybe the reason I cried when I saw the video of their messes is because I don’t much have opportunity to see other people’s messes. I mean, I’m not even certain that other homes get messy, (do they, REALLY?) because I never really see the mess. As a stay-at-home mom in the year 2011 in the USA, most of my interaction with other adults exists over the computer or in the carpool line or at the baseball game or in the church pew. No mess there.


If I do enter a friend’s home, it’s been preplanned, written on a calendar long before our arrival. And the daily mess of that home has been thoroughly cleaned or cleverly hidden. No mess there.


So mostly, I just see other homes in magazines or home-decorating blogs. Perfectly placed pillows, clean and uncluttered counter tops, fabulous flooring. Nary a spill or a stray sock anywhere.


And it occurred to me, a little part of me embraces all of this as true: “All other homes are orderly and clean except mine.” I never verbalize this, but it exists in the deepest recesses of my stay-at-home mom being. It surfaces when I walk into the trashed bedroom or step on the sticky spill. “Something is wrong with my home. Something is wrong with ME that I can’t control this.”

Even as I type this, I know it isn't true. But it sure feels true sometimes.

And it occurred to me that 50 years ago this wasn’t the case. With no Facebook, no smart phones, no blogs, and no Twitter, human interaction was a lot more, well… human. Stay-at-home moms sat on back porches with other stay-at-home moms while kids played catch and rode bikes and wrestled on the floor. They couldn't hide their laundry...it was hanging on the clothes line for the whole neighborhood to see.


After all, how practical would that have been, to run into the house and throw all the toys and clothes and shoes into the laundry room before the next-door-neighbor or the sister or the mother stepped through the back door? I’m thinking it didn’t happen unless it was Bridge Night or something. (Bridge Night. Ha! I don’t know what stay-at-home moms did in the 60’s for fun)

And then it occurred to me, even if wanted to socialize with other moms on a daily basis so we could be all up in each other’s dirt, it probably couldn’t happen. Because it’s 2011, not 1961. And really, as much I love me some blogging and Facebook and decorating magazines, they haven’t done me any favors when it comes to proper perspective on house dirt.


I know. All this while I’m mopping the floor.

And then it occurred to me, maybe next time I mop the floor, I should just turn on some music and stop with all the pontificating.


So, anyway, here’s that link.