Last week was busy--for 9 days in a row I had stuff going on and too much to do. So on Sunday I made the plan that I wasn't going to do any work. I didn't wash a single dish or pick up a single toy. It seems that skipping just one day can result in a disastrous mess in my house.
So yesterday, I got up and went downstairs to make breakfast. On the counter was a note from my husband.
"Our living room is a playground. It looks beautiful. Sit and look at the things and think of what it all means."
I do that sometimes, but I didn't know that he did too. I think he wanted to reassure me that it's okay, that this is the stage of life we're in and that he cherishes it too. The upside down farm toys, the Lego machine, the hairbrush by the baby doll, the two whistles side by side on the end table.