I never thought I would stoop to such things. When visiting other homes as a teenager, I disdained the clutter of child’s paintings on the refrigerator. I scoffed at the messiness of obvious child’s experiments in jars in the corner, in egg cartons on the windowsill, on newspaper spread on the table.
I vowed my house would be neat, immaculate, and free of childish clutter. I would have an “art gallery” in some out-of-the-way place. Caterpillars would stay outside where they belonged. Clay projects could dry in the garage. My refrigerator would not become a bulletin board.
But guess what I discovered? I couldn’t destroy the “beautiful” drawing that my son labored over for hours. How could I throw away the ugly plastic cup with one forlorn flower drooping lifelessly over the side? I remembered my daughter’s gleeful smile when she proudly held out a dandelion clutched in her grimy hand. I never thought I would have a garden growing on my windowsill from the seeds that my son carefully collected. It would be cruel to dismantle my son’s terrain alive with caterpillars, twigs, and grass.
Oh, how different things look from a mother’s eyes! How different things feel from a mother’s heart! If my house looks like an art gallery, it’s because I fondly recalled the little hands that painted each picture. If I have to clean around art projects, I smile at my children’s creativity. I have discovered that an immaculate house is not real beauty. Real beauty is expressed by shining eyes, heartwarming smiles, and wrap-around hugs from happy children.
I vowed my house would be neat, immaculate, and free of childish clutter. I would have an “art gallery” in some out-of-the-way place. Caterpillars would stay outside where they belonged. Clay projects could dry in the garage. My refrigerator would not become a bulletin board.
But guess what I discovered? I couldn’t destroy the “beautiful” drawing that my son labored over for hours. How could I throw away the ugly plastic cup with one forlorn flower drooping lifelessly over the side? I remembered my daughter’s gleeful smile when she proudly held out a dandelion clutched in her grimy hand. I never thought I would have a garden growing on my windowsill from the seeds that my son carefully collected. It would be cruel to dismantle my son’s terrain alive with caterpillars, twigs, and grass.
Oh, how different things look from a mother’s eyes! How different things feel from a mother’s heart! If my house looks like an art gallery, it’s because I fondly recalled the little hands that painted each picture. If I have to clean around art projects, I smile at my children’s creativity. I have discovered that an immaculate house is not real beauty. Real beauty is expressed by shining eyes, heartwarming smiles, and wrap-around hugs from happy children.
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