There's something you should know about me.
I'm an artist. Or, at the very least, I have an artist's heart if not an artist's temperament.
I'm also married to an artist.
I try to have a terrific attitude of casualness about many things which I find helps me carefully consider what things I think are truly important. It helps me not get tied up in knots about "little" things. ("Little things", being subjective to each individual, of course.)
There's a flamboyant sense of "anything goes" in my decorating. I'm drawn to brightly colored paint and whimsical designs, the result being playful and fun. (Or some one's idea of a violently colored nightmare.)
The consequence of this freewheeling existence is a lack of order in my world. Ironically, as a firstborn, I like things orderly. But as a working wife/mother/artist/friend, there is usually only time to spare to do the urgent. (i.e. wash clothes, do dishes, clean bathrooms, etc.) Yes, the stay-at-home dad/husband helps with these things, but there's always SOMETHING crying out for attention. A fire to be put out. In my ideal world (where I live in my imagination) I would have time to work on creative endeavors which include, but are not limited to,: writing, painting, sewing, knitting, gardening, decorating, doing mosaics, renovating, playing with my 4 year old, cooking, serving, long meaningful conversations with my husband , reading, watching movies, visiting museums, travelling, & taking photographs. Looking at this list, I have no time for the mundane!
Fortunately, my job is of the artistic type, or I think I should die a slow, painful death of spirit.
There are spots of frenzied activity, when, after things have been piled here and there for so long, we (or one of us), in a fit of exasperation or desperation -or both- begins to shuffle things around, sorting and re stacking but never quite effectively enough to become " the New World Order".
Couple this malady with a myriad of unfinished projects (together with the no-yet-started projects) and you have a perennially frustrated firstborn.
I vacillate between a cheerleader's enthusiastic optimism (We can do this! Yes we can!) and a world weary pessimism (Who the hell cares? It'll just get dirty and/or messed up again.)
Is there a happy medium in all this? Does it really matter? Is this one of the "little things" I'm fretting over despite my determination otherwise? Is it another example of my see-sawing artistic temperament? I want to enjoy the freedom that comes through artistic expressions, but am I duping myself into believing in something that doesn't exist for me?
Or am I fodder for a psychology lab?