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Sunday afternoons are messy at our house. And I like them that way.

(If you follow me on Instagram you’ve probably noticed).

We’ve usually let the weekend play around us with all its Legos and dolls and light sabers and blanket forts and left over pizza. We’ve let the dishes pile up and a pile of, well, everything really, accumulate in the boys’ room. At least one of our children is wearing only underpants. And Pete and I will have napped and then dragged our bed heads up and back into the land of the living when Zoe wakes us and herself up and the late afternoon sun is pouring in the windows across the brown sofas, showing up every single spot or stain or trail of old milk.

It is very hard to open the door when someone knocks on afternoons like that.

When someone arrives without calling or planning, but simply comes over to say hi or to ask the boys over for a play date or to drop off hand-me down clothes for Zoe the last thing I want is for them to catch me right in the middle of my real life.

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There’s panic and a profound desire to hide. Then the reflex to kick everything into the boys’ room and try to wedge the door shut. To fix my hair, rush on a layer of make up, kick off my mismatched socks.

If you can relate (and please, please tell me you can relate) keep reading over here at (in)courage today.

 

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