Love from Paris: Gorgeous gifts from the amazing Elizabeth Germo of En Route.

To say Sunday morning was bad, well, would be short selling it. As I sat waiting for IZ to come back with breakfast, the reality that our 3 month stay in a clean hotel was coming to an end, and that I, mother of a teenager, was moving my child and assorted pets back into this distasterpiece sunk in. I felt like the worst mother in the world. I mean, who lets their kid live in this filth and destruction?

“Baby, it’s going to be OK. Here, eat a chocolate croissant,” as he hands me a pastry and an almond latte. But there are some things that pastry can’t solve.  With the realization that all my hopes and plans to have our space somewhat sorted, or at least my child’s room cleared of construction debris, were just pie in the sky dreaming—the universe clearly didn’t get the memo— came a flood of tears. IZ kept saying, “Sweetie, think of it as camping in your own house.”

Um.

No.

It’s not camping. It’s a freakin’ obstacle course. If I get a chance to video the horror, I will. But in the meantime, trust me, you don’t want to live here right now.

I’m saving that chocolate bar for our first latte in our new kitchen!

And I can imagine some readers ( or some specific people actually) rolling their eyes and telling me to get a grip. But I’m the girl who never wanted to renovate a space, ever. And I don’t function well in chaos. If it gets really bad, I kinda just shut down on the productivity side of things—because I can’t focus in the mess. I don’t keep a perfectly clean home by any stretch. Holy cow, NO! But I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I function  BETTER when my space is ordered.

I had a friend, (no longer, there are small graces, really) who used to criticize me for wanting my house clean before she would visit. And I tried, and failed, to explain that it had little to do with impressing her, and more to do with MY need for things to be tidy. Not perfect, just picked up. Being called pretentious and arrogant for wanting an ordered space was so hurtful.  I could never figure out why that made me a bad person, but apparently it did. Maybe she felt I was judging her? For what it’s worth, my obsessiveness doesn’t mean YOUR space needs to be tidy. I don’t mind YOUR clutter. Heck, I don’t even notice it. But if you come visit, I might not let you in if I can’t see my floor. Just sayin’.

And that’s my failing. Or my growth edge. So multiply that exponentially and you get my state of mind over moving my child (who is a bit like me in this regard. He doesn’t need things clean, HA!, but he does better when his space is ordered. Even if he’s genetically disabled at keeping it that way!) into an active construction zone. Seriously folks, I’m not kidding when I say this house looks like a hoarder lives in it! A hoarder with power saws.

I love the “postcard” bag. . . and I’m wearing this necklace. I may never take it off. You can find more of Elizabeth’s work in her wonderful store on Etsy: En Route

So, it was a bit of serendipity that I forgot to check the mail on Saturday, and found this amazing package from the lovely Elizabeth Germo in the box right after my melt-down over chocolate croissants. Timing is everything.

I feel awkward with this post. Like, maybe I shouldn’t tell you about my “issues” AND the generosity of Elizabeth in the same post. Maybe those things shouldn’t share the same space? But the thing is, there is something amazing, something so hopeful? about receiving a package of such beauty when you’re surrounded by the debris of your life and home. The juxtaposition is breath taking and the timing, extraordinary.

There is chaos and destruction and friends who are not really friends.

And then there is beauty. And generosity. And friendship that spans the globe and touches you when you most need it.

I am not speechless, clearly. But I am moved to tears. This time, the good kind.