Where there’s Muck there’s Gold

I remember once when the children were tiny and I was reading everything I could find on bringing up children feeling woefully inadequate, I came across a photograph in a book written by a very enlightened Swiss (from the East side no doubt they are the ones wearing birkenstocks) of a terribly messy room shared by two boys.  The author was ecstatic with delight.  All  children’s bedrooms should be like this, she wrote and there was part of me that let out a huge sigh of relief – housekeeping not being a great forte of mine I tend to buy more flowers when the dust gets out of hand – and a part that wasn’t too sure. 

A girlfriend of mine once told me that when she came home from having left her husband with her kids for the weekend there were wet towels everywhere even in the guinea pig cage and she was so disheartened by the mess she considered never going away again until they had all left home.  I commisserated with her as it drives me mad if I can’t find a certain piece of paper or the kitchen is full of flies and icky juice stains.  I like order.  Madre is the queen of order and housewifery and apart from the love of pot pourri and ornamental spoons I’m a chip off the old block although I don’t think my standards are quite up to hers.  I understand the importance of an orderly life and how it frees up our minds to be more creative but it can’t control our lives, stop us seeing friends or spending time doing things we enjoy.  

This is Sophie-G’s bedroom.  She has oftened chastised me for not writing about her and always writing about him (Ollie).  This morning she ran out of the door grabbing a flask of tea and toasted sandwich shouting,

“Don’t go in my room today Mum.  Bye, love you.”  (Sophie’s big on affection).

 You can’t see the details too well but on the floor is a pile of dance tights and an upended dance shoe – she’s performing in a dance show at the moment – her beloved camera is on her bed.  There is a maths book under the bed (best place for it she got my gene in numeracy) and the book she is reading at the moment Everything Changes by Jonathan Tropper (if you haven’t discovered this author you should, start with How to Talk to a Widower).  Hidden to the right of the door is her mac, a Snoopy make-up bag full of ballet hair nets and clips, an ipod and portable phone (both dead) plus random items such as what looks like half a missing essay, a bottle of water, blank cds etc.  On the window ledge is a dried bouquet of flowers from someone who is no longer in her life.  There is a painting of her Swiss grandmother when she was Sophie’s age and to whom she bears an uncanny resemblance propped against the far wall.  There are numerous, scarves, belts, hats lying on the floor discarded when choosing today’s outfit.

Sophie’s life is good and I’m proud of her mess.