I’m starting to embrace messy.
Life is messy. Love is messy. Sometimes marriage is messy. Giving birth is really, really messy.
Babies are messy. Toddlers, with their permanently sticky fingers and penchant for stringing toys and clothes all over the house, are messy. Family mud-bogging adventures are messy. Backyard barbecues are messy.
As soon as Ryan gets home, the ledge between the living room and kitchen is messy with whatever he had in his pockets, proof that he’s home with us where he belongs.
My living room is almost always messy. It’s messy with storybooks and puzzles and the baby dolls I made by hand. It’s messy with life.