I realized pretty quickly into this three-kids-and-1,200-square-feet-of-house gig that I needed my space clean. And I don't mean picked up, I mean organized down to the last paperclip. I notice that I get really, really angry when my space is chaotic, which is not good for me or anyone who lives with me. I don't know if it's some kind of diagnosable condition, but I am the kind of person who simultaneously struggles with organization and cannot function like a normal human being without it.
I've spent many years getting to know the enemy, and enemy, thy name is stuff. I'm suiting up in a power loader and preparing to kick that shit out of the air lock.
When I no longer had a basketball in my gut, after the cloud of pregnancy depression lifted, and once my surgical incision healed up, I began getting down to it. I've slayed some pretty decently sized dragons by now, and my living room is approaching the point that I feel like I can actually consider carefully adding some things in over time: a couple of throw pillows for the couch, some lighting, a rug, wall art.
I've got so very much left (the girls' room is horrific), but I'm making progress every day. We will get there, dammit.
My mother will be so pleased.