At the craft store with my family, I pick up a decorative piece of wood. Written across it in bold, black letters, are the words “Boring families have clean houses”.

I laugh. “Mom! We should get this!”

My mother chuckles and rolls her eyes.

In the basement, my brother has taken over half the laundry room. His custom PC glows a neon pink and blue in the corner. The countertops we initially planned to fold clothes on are covered in wires, sodder, and the carbon fiber frames of the drones he builds, and re-builds, to fly in competitions.

Two rolling carts stand by the front door. One is filled with stick-on labels and bags and a heat sealer. The other has oats, flour, chocolate, and spices that no one is allowed to use except my sister. She bakes trays of cookies every Thursday night and wakes at six thirty on Friday so mom can drive her to the farmer’s market to sell them until noon. Her extra-large baking sheets barely fit in the pantry and when she’s at work, no one else can use the kitchen.

My brother’s soccer schedule is written on the family whiteboard in orange marker. His shaker cups for protein drinks litter the house because they’re too tall to fit in the cupboards, and his array of cleats take up more space than anyone else’s shoes. Out in our backyard, a wide black net hangs from the trees in front of a strip of astroturf–a birthday present after begging for years–so he can practice his kicks without losing balls in the woods. It’s not the most pleasing to the eye, but his smile is.

In the far corner of our living room sits a dollhouse made of cardboard. We have a real dollhouse, but my youngest sister wanted to make her own. She builds furniture out of bottlecaps and duct tape and pieces she has crocheted. A small table in the living room is covered edge to edge with the feathers, acorns and leaves she collects from outside, and in the sunroom is a crate of chipped and broken old dishes she uses to play restaurant.

The downstairs closet is supposed to hold our suitcases and vacuum, but you can barely reach them, because it’s so crammed full of my boxes. They hold copies of my books and business cards and bookmarks and banners and signs for my events. Our kitchen cabinets are crammed full of my mugs, the drawer below them contains tea alone,  and I’ve been known to break the printer with my manuscripts.

I don’t think I realized until now, until I’ve grown up a bit, how through their actions, my parents have told me and my siblings “What you love is worth the space in our lives. In fact, this space, this home is meant for you to fill it. You are worth the space. You are worth the ‘inconvenience’. Build the life you love.”

In the process, they have created something just as messy and beautiful as all the passions we pursue–a family.

And I’ll be forever grateful for that.

docendo disco scribendo cogito

(I learn by teaching and think by writing.)

Millie Florence