(Okay...so this one's a day late. I started it yesterday, but never finished it. Go ahead... you can beat me with a wet noodle. You have my permission.)
I love my husband. I truly, honestly do. And, I know that I'm blessed to have him in my life, in so many ways.
That being said, there's one remarkably BAD trait about him, that no amount of gentle nudging (and I'm sure quite a bit of nagging on my end over the years) can change. He's PITIFULLY sloppy. Granted, he's gotten much, MUCH better than he was when we first began co-habitating, but he's still pretty notorious for just leaving things where they lay, and not giving a goodness gracious heck if they stay there until the dust bunnies move in around it and take up residence. He's got better things to do than to pick them up. Like watching a NASCAR race. Yawn.
Anywhoosie... my wonderful, sweet, generous husband knows that I need much more in the way of sleep than he does. Therefore, every Sunday morning, he gets up with the girls (my son would sleep until Christmas if we let him) during the wee small hours of the morning, leaving me to stretch out and really lounge for another hour. Or two.
The downside to this luxury? I emerge from our bedroom to a house that looks like we've just set down on the Wicked Witch of the East. He cooks a lip-smackin', down-home country style breakfast every Sunday morning.... and leaves a huge, heaping, bloody mess in my kitchen to show for it. The newspaper he was reading while eating this amazing breakfast can be found picked through and strewn all across my dining room table. And, because the girls feel like they can roam free throughout the house, making their mark wherever they go, there are trails of toys, pillows, blankets, clothes, and various other "girly" belongings all throughout the house. They like it when Daddy gets up with 'em, in more ways than one.
In earlier years, this disaster area would have set me reeling. Now, however, I take it all with a grain of salt. Oh, sure, I get on them all to clean up their messes, but I no longer allow myself to stress and strain over it all. I simply tell myself that on Monday morning, when my husband has left for work and my oldest two children are off to school, I will reclaim my house. MY house. I will primp and fix and position all of the furniture where it belongs. I will pick up the objects that have been strewn all over the floors. I will put away things in their proper place.
And these people with whom I live KNOW that they don't mess with Mama during the week. Sunday is their only day to kick up and go wild. And I guess that's a fair enough compromise.