January 7, 2012 - Saturday morning

I sit cross legged on the floor of our main room and can't help but to notice
the dust coating everything so clearly as the sun shines through the blinds
behind me.

It's ten am Saturday morning.  The kids have just eaten breakfast, far too late.
The dog decided to poop on the floor before we woke and my daughter
has inadvertently stepped in it.   I'm using brown sugar in my coffee as a last
option for sweetener because we need to go to the grocery desperately.
The floor around me is covered in matchbox cars and fire trucks.   An unopened marker
sits on the fabric of my footstool and construction equipment flash
cards have spilled and are scattered down the stairs while he whines
noisily for someone to help him pick them up.

It's so loud.  Along with his pleas coming from the stairs,  the sounds of bad
cover music for already bad music is blaring through a wii dance video as she
stomps and sings with glee, lyrics she shouldn't know but is still reading along
to happily and far too well.

And me?   I'm still wearing my pajamas.   I smell like carpet
cleaner.  And I'm sitting on the floor, overwhelmed at the dust and the
disarray around me.

And then something inside quietly tells me to stop.  To take notice of the sounds,
the dirt, the toys, the voices.   Because this something tells me that as
disorganized as it feels right this minute, one day, long from now,
I will remember this spot on the floor and this chaotic Saturday morning
and realize it is probably one of the best moments of my life.

~K