I am at the end of home visits. (Well, technically there is one left, but the mom cancelled and didn’t reschedule, so I consider my obligation fulfilled.) It is a long process, but a valuable one. It’s nice to make the connection with new children and families, and the children I’ve already been teaching are excited to have me come over. (Except one boy. He could not contain his excitement/weirded-out-ness of actually having me in his house, so he jumped around and hid behind his mom, never uttering a word.)
All these homes I’ve visited have been so nice. They are clean. They are homey. Even the slightly cluttered ones have a welcoming feel to them that is just lovely. The moms say to me, “Sorry it’s a little messy” and I guffaw and say, “Come to my house. It will make you feel much better.”
I’m home now. I am sitting at a counter filled with papers, pens, a toy horse, a bottle of vanilla extract, my keys, and a lot of unidentifiable debris – and that’s just what’s in arm’s reach. Over on the counter is a bag of potatoes gifted to me by a farming family, a middling size assortment of dirty dishes and three bananas slumping to their death. I don’t dare turn around to look at the disaster that is the dining room. The cats have knocked over a lot of stuff.
My house is not fancy. I have been in some very, very, very beautiful homes the past few days. They are straight-out-of-a-catalog gorgeous. Long ago, Young Me would have been inspired to go my own home and make it more beautiful. But Old Me is content with the messy, non-beautiful but perfectly functional house.
Old Me just wants to take her shoes off and go to bed.
I’m with you, Old Me, but we should really do a load of laundry first.