I woke up this morning with a cold. The kind where your head feels swimmy and your nose constantly runs. I surveyed my house. Even though I had steam cleaned my floors this week, one of the cats already had thrown up and put a new stain on them. Dirty laundry was piled high, dishes were in the sink, and my dining room table was filled with crayons and drawings. These are the days that I struggle with. It feels like I am constantly fighting a losing battle with clutter and mess and my to do list is seventy miles long. Some days I just want to not clean. My ex husband always complained if the house was even the slightest bit out of order. He didn’t understand that when you stay home with a kid all day and you fill your day with fun activities that there may be dishes in the sink, or clothes still in the dryer. I look back at pictures and my house was always clean, even though it wasn’t to his standards, and everyone looks happy. Except for me. If I was even in the picture, most times I was behind the camera, trying hard to commemorate the memory of dad being home with us. Now if I took a picture you would probably see the line of Skylanders sitting on the tv stand; library books in a pile on the floor of the kiddo’s room; and the drawings of Logan and me, or Logan and the boyfriend, or Logan and something to do with Minecraft. I am struck by how less stressful the environment of home seems now. I’m not constantly anxious about not living up to unattainable standards. I look forward to the boyfriend coming home, rather than uneasy that I might have done something wrong. I feel happier and loved, and if there is laundry left in the basket, I may very well come out and find the boyfriend folding it. And that is what really matters. A person that over looks your dirty laundry and will help anyway.