Mundane Therapy

I hate when my husband talks about cleaning. There. I said it.
 
The thing is, when you live in a city apartment with three kids, it's hard to keep anything neat for long. The stuff (infinite) will always outrun the space (finite), and when you add that fact of physics (okay, perhaps not physics, but that sounded good) to the fact that I am a clutter-accepting person (a gene I have clearly passed to my children), cleaning is generally a losing battle. And I don't like losing battles.
 
But, alas, cleaning must be done, and so, on a day that couldn't possibly be the first day of winter, when I might have been enjoying the spring-like outdoors or shopping the pre-holiday sales, I was home cleaning. Straightening, wiping, organizing. It is far from perfect. But the process was oddly therapeutic. Sometimes there is a comfort in mundane things--as if, no matter what chaos swirls around you, certain things stay the same. And even if part of what stays the same is the untenable clutter, you can always do the straightening, wiping, and organizing to make it just that little bit better. And to make yourself just a little bit better too.
 
Chaos will still be here tomorrow, and a great deal of mess will be too. So, perhaps tomorrow,  I'll make time for a little more therapy.