Quiet House, Crazy House

I know some crazy people.

Our friends have 7 children.  If they had the chance, they’d have more.  They range in age from 10 to 4 months, 4 adopted.  The house is noisy, colorful, and in constant motion.

I call it bedlam. 

When we walk in, loud music is playing in the kitchen.  Papa is cooking something wonderful (that Little Miss won’t eat).  One to three children throw themselves at my ankles, and call my name with varying clarity.  Books, CDs and DVDs are in piles, and sometimes clean laundry.  Someone is climbing on or jumping off something.  The TV is on.  You can’t find the remote.  Someone else is on the iPad.  Someone is yelling, usually an adult.

I love it.

My house is neat and orderly.  I constantly declutter.  I make a meal schedule and shop according to that (Little Miss still won’t eat it).  I schedule workout time, writing time, cleaning time.  Books are put away.  Toys live in the playroom.  The surfaces are shiny.

I hate it.

Don’t get me wrong.  I am really proud of my house and the way it looks.  I work hard to keep it that way.  And I’m very happy to leave the noise and the brightness and go home to my quiet home.  But sometimes, I look at the crazy-ness of their home and secretly wonder if I could live like that.

Somewhere between bedlam and OCD-world, there is the happy medium I am hoping for.  I want to yell at my kids for running in the house, or slamming the door (OK, Little Miss does that constantly).  I love my home, and I want to fill it with love like they have.

Is that too much to ask?