I think it’s just this stage of life.

Or maybe it’s just me.

We all come home from the places we’ve been.  We come in rough with the world on our hands, our hair and clothes smelling like everywhere else but home.

We each are a little whiny, a little tired, and a little dirty.

The girls throw off their shoes in a heap, pile backpacks in the corner and I unload the car from the day: empty water bottles, purse, phone, empty travel mug.  My husband explodes his keys/wallet/ computer down where ever he chooses and silently begins to go through the mail.

And we’re home.

And sometimes, the chaos doesn’t even stop when we step over the threshold.  It should, I think.  But then the wheel of home begins to turn and almost as quickly as I’ve rushed the girls through their day, it begins here.

Homework.

Laundry.

Dishes.

Pick up the toys on the stairs.

Bath time.

Bed time.

And somehow, even in the middle of the new chaos, the home chaos (because the only difference is that here it’s more familiar chaos than out there), we realize that we are in the only place that it all makes sense.  We understand each other here.  I look over at him with a half-eaten quesadilla in his hand that’s gone cold because he’s helping her with her math homework.  He smiles at me. We recognize the weariness in each other’s eyes.

And because of that the chores and must-do’s aren’t that bad anymore.  My disorganized bedroom becomes the scene of play for two bath-fresh, pajamed little girls.  The dining room table isn’t eaten on tonight but is the backdrop for 2nd grade book report projects.  Bottles of Elmers and child-sized scissors collect in the corner.

If I stop and watch, I can recognize the love through the crazy, the beauty through the hurry, and the familiarity through the mess.