Dorothy was definitely onto something when she clicked her heels together and uttered those words.
I've never really considered myself a homebody. Even the few years I was at home with the kids all the time, even then. Instead of enjoying it, I was always preoccupied with all the things the house demanded of me. I couldn't sit still for a minute without eyeing a ball of dust in the corner or a pile of things needing to be put away. Damn housework.
Sidenote: If I had a pair of those sparkly red shoes that granted wishes? I'd wish for a team of cleaners to come to my house every day for an hour.
Working away from the house a few times a week has given me a bit of perspective.
On Friday I left the house for work at two in the afternoon and returned, somewhat worn and depleted, at nine in the evening. The moment I stepped through the door, I felt enormous relief to be back in my own house. I suddenly appreciated it like never before. Without even taking off my coat, I went to the sofa and curled up there. I was simply happy to be home.
I was like Dorothy, only with scrubs and sneakers instead of a blue gingham dress and ruby slippers.
Looking at my house when I come home from work is like looking at someone else's house. I'm not scrutinizing the crayon marks on the wall or the scratches on the floor. Instead I'm looking at the house as a whole, seeing the colours we picked out together five years ago, the things we collected over the years, the way we've made our house a home.
Of course, that lasts about two minutes, and then I start with my finicky ways again. Still, it's good to see things from a different angle for a change.