The beds aren’t made.
The laundry isn’t done (washed, dried or put away).
The kitchen isn’t spic and span (my mother would be horrified), although the dishwasher is running.
The nursery is a disaster-zone. Which is one of the rooms that really isn’t bothering me, after all he really doesn’t sleep in it.
But there is laughter (when Little T isn’t napping) and playing and singing, even in a messy house.
There is joy amidst the sink full of dirty dishes, and happiness amongst the stinky laundry.
There is love in every breath that we take, even when we are driving ourselves (and our loved ones) crazy.
The promised pictures.