My Child???

I admit it. I'm a slob. My house regularly looks like a college dorm room. Maybe worse. You know, minus the beer bottles.

I try. I sincerely do. I am always doing dishes, laundry, picking up... but somehow the messes I make (and it is me, folks) (ok, Toe helps) (and sometimes J, but not nearly as often) (mostly me) always exceed the amount I clean. I'm a pretty good mom. A terrible housekeeper. I can pretend otherwise. I want to be one of those women with those beautiful Pottery Barn/Martha Stewart/[insert name of catalogue with striking, spare furnishings here] homes. It is in my heart. But my house? Disaster. On a good day, we get the clutter under control enough to allow people into the house.

I come by it honestly. I am the daughter of two incredible pack rats. You never know when you might need something. It all starts with the clutter and goes from there. I have been told there are many resources to help you "de-clutter" your life. But if I have the choice between retraining my body to be less cluttered or... pretty much anything else, I end up choosing that instead. Napping, playing with Toe, reading, writing, showering, contemplating my navel...

So imagine my surprise when I am hiking on a trail through the woods with my two year old and he says, "There are a lot of needles here! I need to clean them up. I will get a stick and sweep the needles up." He proceeds to find a stick and drag it along the trail with purpose, taking a few needles with him.

We are trying to instill a better sense of cleanliness (than mine) with Toe. We have him help pick up his toys and he loves to help with dishes and laundry. His CF requires us to be hyper diligent about washing his hands (to prevent as many germs as possible) and keeping him clean (and avoiding standing water, and cleaning the sinks regularly, and avoiding ill people, but I digress...), but he's not the boy in the bubble. He loves feeding fish to the animals at the aquarium. He plays on the beach and in the back yard like a regular kid. He's not the kind of kid who can't get icky...He lives with me, for goodness sake.

But there we were, inching our way down the trail, "sweeping the needles." Toddler pace. Toddler whim. I find it fascinating. Must be his Dad's genes. My mother says my Grandmother (her mother) would find this highly amusing. She hated camping (largely because of the dirt), and was truly a tidy person. So maybe it just skipped two generations. Hey, I'll take it. Maybe it will rub off on me.