I sit in my nursing tank top that doesn’t even come close to matching my pink poke-a-dot pajamas. I’ve worn this top for three days, with two showers in-between cloaking myself with milking duties.
When the doorbell rings, we clamor for coverage. Hiding, only peaking with guarded glances when we think the coast is clear. A retractable arm is extended out the front door to snatch the Amazon box.
Boys are clad in boxers with hair that is raised as if to ask a question to begin our school day. The school room is cleaned in a mass panic before guests arrive. This invasion of inquiring minds is welcome as it spurs me on to return to this homespun room.
The compost piles up in the kitchen, filling multiple bowls. The recycling towers like an intricate interconnected Lego tower.
Real is when you come into my home and I let you see this . . . this disorganization, my pajamas, poopy cloth diapers, and sticky compost.
I ask you to roll up your sleeves and join me.
Linking up with my encouraging, sweet Lisa Joe over at the Gypsy Mama.