Dirty laundry

As I was sporadically preparing these recent sets of pictures for the blog I wondered what story they were really communicating.  I write about how hard living has been for me lately, then post beautiful, scenic pictures of my cooperating children in (mostly) matching clothes.  I know that photography is a tool for me to find beautiful graces hiding throughout weary days, but, in case there was any doubt, my house has been a constant wreck except just before we have company, the only times my bathrooms have been cleaned are when my mother-in-law and then my visiting friend did them for me, and most days I am exhausted from working so hard to keep my patience with the children and myself and my postage stamp-sized kitchen.  (Those sweet pictures of Beatrice in her baptism dress, for example?  If I backed up two feet you'd have seen the pile of towels and cloth diapers on the other side of the love-seat.  Or the sticky, still piled high from breakfast and lunch, table in the background.  etc. etc.)

So here is a more realistic picture.  Though I must confess that I kicked a few piles of dirty laundry on the floor out of the way to get a clear shot.  

I asked Nora to empty the dryer for me, only to hear her calling for help.  I called back, "what's wrong!?!" (said with a growl in my throat from the other room)  "You know how to empty the dryer..."

"But, mommy," she says sweetly, "where to I put it?  I can't reach!"

She arches her little feet as high as she can go and I have to put the camera down quickly so the baskets don't topple down on top of her.  We laugh and tumble into a hug on the floor, and I hope I can remember to laugh more at the messes and photograph them too.