It's an odd feeling to be packing up to move home.
Well to my old home.
It's been too many years to count since I lived under my parents roof. However the realisation slowly dawned a few weeks ago that the "let's replace the kitchen cupboards" programme had spiralled a little out of control. Instead there are walls coming down, rooms being gutted and refurbished. All of it wonderful of course. But when you are three years old and insatiably curious, it's a recipe for disaster.

In fact one of the MABS (my amazing brothers) who is now a respectable member of the community, holds the claim to renovation disaster fame in our family. He was considerably older than Mr. Small when he balanced on the A frame of one of the many houses we grew up in, that my parents renovated around us. Having clearly watched the movie "The boy who could fly" one too many times, he stepped off the ledge. All my poor mother, who was washing dishes at the kitchen sink saw was a blur, as he fell from the second storey, onto the pile of rubble strategically placed just outside the kitchen window. He escaped with only a broken arm. It could have been much worse. A few weeks later I tried to move a sheet of gyprock and dropped it on my toe, promptly breaking it.

The evidence speaks for itself really. Renovations plus children? Expensive AND deadly.
So having ascertained from Barry the Builder just how many people will be in our home and the noise, chaos and mess there will be, especially in the early days, we decided to move out.

Thankfully my parents have kindly agreed to take us in. Naturally this means they themselves have wisely decided to go on a short holiday themselves.

Today I'm the offspring have also been enlisted as small and willing slaves clearing out the laundry and bathroom. We emptied the study and storeroom on the weekend. Husband has been building "magic shelves" all over the place and I have thrown out too many black sacks of clutter to count.

It will be a strange thing to be a parent in my childhood home. But I can't wait for the offspring to spend some real time in a place I loved so much either.

I admit I am a nag. It's one of my less endearing qualities. I try to phrase my nags in all manner of creative ways, but the the underlying theme is always the same.
"Clean it up!"
I am sympathetic to people and their foibles. But the one thing I don't understand is clutter. Shows like "Hoarders" leave me horrified. I simply don't understand why people would want to live in a mess. Why would you, when you can have it neat and clean and sparkling?
Having many small offspring has been good for me. It's knocked the obsessive compulsive element almost totally out of me. Thankfully there are wonderful inventions like large pretty boxes where I can store the offsprings clutter neatly and tidily. I declutter their rooms on a regular basis and I'll be starting indoctrinating "Declutter Training" for them as soon as their arms are long enough to reach the high shelves.
When I met my husband part of the instant attraction was that the man was neat and orderly. This is a man who has a tidy tool shed. He loves cleaning products and likes to clean things too.
But he had a secret he hid from me.
It nearly derailed our marriage when I discovered it.
The cave.
My man needed a cave. And like most caves?
It's messy.
I remember years ago watching the episode of "Friends" where Chandler discovers his obsessively tidy wife's Monica has a cupboard. And the cupboard is every Hoarders dream. I empathised with his shock completely.
The big problem with my husband's cave is it is where I have had to write and work the past few months. It's a dark room anyway, but add the mess and clutter and I have struggled manfully with it. It's also been hard because the offspring hated me even going into the room, mainly because, they quite rightly felt cut off from me.
In case you think I'm over-reacting,this is the cave:


But I'd like to let you know that nagging works.
Thanks to my plaintive pleas Husband and my family all rallied around. And now the toy-room has become My Castle.


I share it with the offspring. We share a set of shelves but the desk is MINE. This morning Mr Small banged on his pots and pans next to me. He interrupted regularly so I could read him a story and I happily obliged. But I got to work, he got to play. It's early days. The babysitter will still come so I can focus on working, especially when I'm on a deadline. But the crippling burden of motherguilt has been eased.
My husband can have his cave back.
And now when I walk past it.
I just close the door.