The walls in my house see and hear everything. I can’t hide from them, can’t cover their eyes, and even if I paint over them, they will always see the truth.
My walls see our morning routine unfold. From how I choose the wrong princess themed cup to the wrong Cheerios (honey not plain). They see the drama over picking the right item for preschool Show & Tell; who knew it could be so serious for a 3 year old? They also see the goodbye kisses my husband gives to all of us, including the dog, per my daughter’s insistence.
My walls watch our Black Lab/Chow mix anxiously await our return. They watch her riffling through the trash, spreading coffee grounds all over the kitchen, pacing throughout the house, nibbling, no, chewing through blinds, and burying every. single. stuffed. animal. in the couch cushions.
My walls hear the arguments with my husband over why I don’t want to take a kid with me to the grocery store (because that’s my vacation time). They hear me tell him I need help. But they also hear our riotous laughter and see us flirt with each other like we are still teenagers.
My walls see the magnitude of projects on our plates: the unfinished tile in kid’s bathroom, the baseboards missing from almost half our house, my picture wall sans pictures, and the garage (that’s a scene straight out hoarders). The walls know we’ve lived in this house for almost 3 years.
My walls watch me sit silently and sometimes cry, wondering how I can be better. How can I be a better mom? How can I lose the “baby weight” I somehow continue to gain two years after I was pregnant? Am I good wife? Am I a good friend? Do we have wine? Oooh, do we have cheese? What is that smell? From serious to trivial, these are the questions and concerns my walls see me mull over.
My home has a lot to say about me, and I own it. If my walls could talk, they would say that I own my mistakes, imperfections and all.
I am a mom. One who has morning struggles to get out of the door on time, who constantly cleans up messes made by others, two legged and four. My walls see a mom who argues with her husband, who has a to-do list that never seems to end, who doubts herself, and struggles with her body image.
But they also see laughter, love, compassion, and care.
The walls see a mom who wouldn’t change a thing. Except maybe the paint color in the living room, I think that needs another face-lift.