Member of the Family

I used to routinely note that my ex left in order to avoid cleaning the playroom.  I meant it as a joke --- kind of --- but let's just say that playroom was one hell of a mess.  And let's further note that I was cleaning it on my own well before I became a single parent.  It's JT's realm but once or twice a year I help him to shovel it out.  Then we return to status quo, e.g., heaps and heaps of plastic crap.

Just after Christmas, when the annual playroom cleaning season opened, T suggested that some shelves would help to organize the room.  Then she got the shelves, put them together, and started sifting through the Playmobil collection.  She helped JT and me to organize containers, give them labels, and get a plan.  For a few weeks, JT and I muddled through the rest of the job, getting a little done every day.  Last weekend, there was still a rather significant disorganized corner that required our attention.  T, who had acquired hinges for the broken toy bin, pulled up her sleeves and got to work.  On Sunday afternoon,  she patiently spent more than an hour figuring out the best way to attach those hinges to the bin.  And then she motivated JT and I to take on the last corner and finish the job.  By the time of Sunday's Superbowl kickoff, we had a clean playroom.

When the project first began, JT told T that helping to clean the playroom would make her a member of the family.  He wasn't joking.  That playroom as a symbol of the two of us is a pretty sound metaphor.  Like the playroom, JT and I are messy, disorganized, sometimes untidy, though often fun.  To T's credit, she saw through the messy crazy and was willing to embrace the prospect of happiness.  I love her all the more for it.  As for tidy shelves and a clean playroom,  well, that's just a bonus.