A week ago, when we left, the flat was cramped and messy. A deep layer of mom guilt dusted the domestic landscape, with sharp bits of lego hidden beneath threatening my bare feet and sanity. My ever-timid sense of humour had fled weeks before, I guess she’d nipped out for a six-pack and just never quite made it back to me. And that was before four weeks of self-isolation that kept my small kids cooped up in our sweaty and inelegant flat while the short-lived British summer passed them by. Before I sent the text messages to cancel the seventh birthday party, heart in my throat.

That flat was infested with subtle but persistent itches that nobody was quite able to scratch. In the close summer air all I could smell was the reek of untended disappointments, bottled frustrations. I felt my heart would break if I had to tell my wilting five-year-old once more: “NO, I can’t play cards with you, I need to work a couple more hours today”, or “NO, we can’t go to the park, you have 6 more days of self-isolation”.

But yesterday, I returned to a different place.

I walked into our home, complete with sharp knives and our past and our future. My studio that’s full to the brim with yarn and other delicious creative projects. Shelves brimming with the toys and games we play. After spreading clean sheets crisply over our bed, I fell backwards into it, delighted.

The things I love stood out bright and clear in this place I chose, this home that’s been shaped by John and I and our fast-growing kids over the past decade. Even the mess and kid art just looked like the evidence of a joyful family existence. Because in the end it’s my mess. Mess that I love.

What a difference a week away made.

I wonder what I can do to play hide-and-seek with this feeling of appreciation for my life, my home, my day-to-day – just as it is. When perspective, humour and gratitude walk out the door, how can I playfully hunt down and capture them once again, perhaps a little more often!?