Our house looks like a toystore exploded and all of its toys landed on our floors and in our closets and shelves. Feet bruised from stepping on Legos (I KID YOU NOT, THEY ARE THE DEVIL’S TOYS) right before sitting on cars and pencils that my daughter has strewn all over the sofa. Having kids is messy. So, so frustratingly, joyfully messy.
Our house is rarely orderly. But oh, it is a happy house. Toys. Books. Fairy lights everywhere, because my daughter loves them (it was one of the first things that she responded to and pointed at when she was little…r). Boldly colored playmats, because they’re safe. Drawings, mine and hers (I have a wall in the kitchen that’s dedicated fully to her art; it’s Her Gallery and I regularly curate it with newer paintings).
And rainbows, of course. Always rainbows. On her bed, their clothes, her boots, her hairclips, our pillows, my bookcase, her puzzles, my work.
I’ve always liked them. But having kids (and before that, having lost them #miscarriage #rainbowbaby) made me embrace them.
