I used to be scared to death we would scratch our hardwood floors. I would literally walk on my tip toes when I had on heels so I wouldn't let them touch the surface of our sacred wood...holy ground if you will.
In the beginning I noticed every new little scratch and would tense up each time I saw a new scar across this blemish free surface...like seeing a pimple on the cheek of a baby's porcelain skin...it just didn't belong.
I thought about this as I rolled my suitcase across the floor tonight. This would have never happened in year 1 of living in our new home. We are the first to live in these walls so every ding, scratch or hole is totally ours and as much as I would like to blame a previous family with their unruly-Tarzan-like kids and ignorant way of housekeeping, I have to take responsibility.
Every now and then the light will hit the floor at a perfect angel to show off each injury & it screams out to me in horror, but most of the time I barely notice it anymore. I'm not exactly sure when the transition happened...probably when the scratches outnumbered the perfect. However, I'm happy that the transition has finally taken place. I'm relieved to not squirm when someone walks across the floor in their pointy heels. I don't hold my breath when my dogs run so hard down the steps, to greet my husband, that they can't get traction and bare their claws into the soft wood. It means our house is lived in. It means that we've had someone so special at the door that Jax & Raleigh don't mind interrupting their afternoon nap to sprint & meet them. It means we've come home with suitcases much heavier and full of goodies from the trip or left in a hurry with excitement for a weekend away. It means heavy boots have tramped in and out while working on projects & spending time with family. It means our lives are full...messy...but full.
Anytime I grit my teeth at a "unnecessary" scratch because the Christmas tree wouldn't fit through the back door, I tell myself we're simply making a mess so my future kids won't worry about making theirs...and it makes me thankful. Thankful each scratch bares a memory. Thankful for the blessing this house has been to us & so so so very thankful for the people that have helped make their mark in the wood.
1 comment:
I used to be same way. But now, two boys later... eh. It's just a house. It can be fixed, replaced, or buffed out. But I'll tell you what can't be replaced: the time spent worrying about it or the little heart that was sad because he disappointed his mommy and messed up something that, in the scheme of things, was actually totally replaceable and unimportant. It's wonderful that you are learning these things now. :) Love ya, Lisa!
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