She just doesn't understand

Last week I had a lady who paints murals and borders come to the house to give me an estimate on doing some work in my daughters' room. As she walked in our front door, her eyes were immediately drawn to our dining room on the left. This is where we do much of our homeschooling seatwork, and the table was covered that day -- as it is every day -- with books, papers, drawings, pencils, rulers, art supplies, plastic geometric solids, a puzzle or two, and a globe from the 1960s that I've marked up to reflect contemporary changes to geopolitical information. Oh yeah, I also drew the equator and prime meridian in with black permanent ink so they'd show up better.

Anyway, I quickly hurried her up the stairs to the room I wanted her to paint. As we reached the landing, I cautioned her to steer clear of the toys, dolls, books, train track pieces, and other miscellanea of childhood.

My daughters' room was actually quite tidy that day, but I could tell she wondered about my younger girl's small roll-top desk fairly bursting at the seams with papers, puzzle books, crayon box, paper dolls, sketch pad, and complete Hello Kitty art set in a hot pink plastic case. My older daughter's nightstand piled high with books was also a sight to behold.

After our consultation as to colors, mural theme, etc. we went back downstairs and finished up our visit in the entryway where only a legally blind person could miss the enormous pile of unfolded laundry on a bench nearby. That, and the equally enormous pile of folded laundry that rose up out of a chair in the family room back behind me.

Smiling, the woman said to let her know when we were ready to have her come to work her artistic magic, and as she walked out the front door she remarked, "You know, I have a good friend whose name I'd be happy to give you. She's a professional organizer and I know she could help you dig out from under all this. Is it alright if I give her your phone number?"

I mumbled something about having four children, homeschooling, and being abnormally busy 30 hours a day and then graciously thanked her for her concern. The personal organizer did call a few days later. For a minimum of $200 per three-hour session she could come to my house and make it into a showplace.

If I had that kind of cash to burn, it would be tempting. Tempting, but not likely to happen. Here's what she'd find and I just know she'd want me to re-shelve, discard, donate or hide all of it:

The "tares and the wheat" sculpture my girls made in Sunday School to illustrate the famous parable. It sits on our mantle and competes for visual attention with a colored picture one of my daughters taped up nearby.

The wooden bin near the fireplace that's overflowing with battered but much-loved board books my toddler son likes to "read."

The stack of empty cardboard boxes all four of my children use as cars, boats, planes and other modes of transportation.

The 3-D sculpture my oldest girl made from discarded objects as part of a study on recycling and the environment.

The stacks of books that appear every few days like sprouting mushrooms alongside every toilet in the house, the window seat in the kitchen, the sofa table, the end table near my comfy chair, the kitchen table, the kitchen counter, and on pretty much any flat surface not already occupied by other books. We have shelves, we just don't like the hassle of re-shelving books we know we're going to want to see again in the next 48 to 72 hours. My two oldest read voraciously and they're not picky about where they do it. My two youngest also like to study books and be read to, so we can't skimp on them, either. Since none of the kids ever watch TV or play video games, their books, each other, and the great outdoors ARE their entertainment.

The reams of paper and cardstock for use during art lessons, private drawing sessions, lapbooking, scrapbooking, and diagramming of everything from nuclear fusion to the water cycle. "Here, let's draw a picture so you can see how this works," is a familiar refrain around here.

The boxes of photographs and scrapbooking supplies that I need to chronicle the lives of my four beautiful and immensely entertaining children -- if I ever get enough downtime to actually do this.

The egg-carton "gardens" my girls made in Brownies that sit on the counter over my sink.

The costumes that drape themselves around the house after my younger daughter and her brother have finished playing yet another game of knights and princesses, cowboys and Indians, Pilgrims and Indians, Bible-era characters, or house with them as Mom and Dad and their little brother as the baby.

The train tracks, gears, flashlights, magnets, wires, and other gadgetry that belong to my inquisitive four-year-old son -- they are literally to be found in every room and in every configuration possible.

The magazines -- nature magazines, literature magazines, homeschooling magazines, current affairs magazines, religious magazines. We read 'em. We need 'em. We share 'em, we cut 'em up for notebooks and art projects. We like their portability so we keep stacks of them in the van for long trips.

The video camera I leave out in case one of the kids does some unusually and awesomely film-worthy thing. Or we see a cool bird, or it snows, or the children put on an impromptu dance recital.

The paper lanterns my kids made to celebrate Chinese New Year.

Boxes of completed homeschool workbooks, notebooks, and art projects. I save it all in case the state or anyone else REALLY wants to know what we've done these past three years. That's a lot of stuff to sift through. . .

Boxes of clothes catalogued by size and gender so I can find the next set of hand-me-downs as my kids grow.

Toys that all get played with, maybe not every day but by the end of a given month. Their worn places, scrapes and scratches attest to their regular use. "We love them all and we use them all," my six-year-old proclaims. "We get so busy going from one activity to the next we don't want to take time to put them away," she explains earnestly.

Puzzles for all age ranges -- some with missing pieces, true -- that escape their cabinet for the great outdoors of the family room.

Projects to be done on rainy days or the hot afternoons of upcoming summer -- papermaking kit, crystal growing kit, perler bead kit.

In short, the only way my house will ever make it into the annals of Better Homes and Gardens is if one of two things happens: Either my children all grow up and leave home or we stop homeschooling so we're never home to think, learn and do and, by default, mess things up.

Some days I wonder if the first will really ever happen, knowing we'll be sad when it does. But I never contemplate the second option.

I love my house because everywhere I go I am reminded of four beautiful brilliant minds hard at work on the mysteries of life, and this blesses me more than uber-neatness ever could.

Besides, $200 will buy a lot of books.