My Everything

You are my everything room. Last night, I sat right here and composed a post whilst folding laundry and doing dishes. You can do anything. I can lean over and grab a snack from the pantry in the water-heater closet. I can turn my head, catch a little television, pick up a few toys in the toy room while I wait for the dial-up. To think, just last year I didn't know how much I needed you. Our first home, it seemed so cute, so petite, so compact. But that was before I met you. I remember thinking how we were bursting at the seams in that cute little house. How we bought that beautiful, big home on Colorado's Front Range, just so we could have some more elbow room. Little did I realize the elbow grease required to clean the four bathrooms in that elbow room. And the pressure to pay for that elbow room every month. And how we still found ourselves regularly all together in the bathroom, surrounded by a large, empty house, surrounded by a sea of still larger houses. How easily I was swayed into thinking I needed so much more.

And now, here we are, you and I (and my two children, two cats and husband)--my everything. I didn't know how much I would appreciate having my office in my laundry room in my dining room in my kitchen in my living room in their toy room in grandma's spare room. With room to spare. I'm sure tomorrow, when everyone is awake, we'll all find ourselves in the bathroom together--you know, the one I can clean in 20 minutes flat. But don't worry my everything, I know you're just outside that bathroom door, waiting. And we'll be right there, to see you through everything.