
Confessions of a Former Neat Freak (because hardly anyone actually does “drop by when they’re in the neighborhood”)
Confession: I peeked inside my daughter’s diary once. I didn’t intend to, but there it was, wide open on her bedside table. Instead of disclosing her crush-of-the-moment, her fifth-grade handwriting read, “I wish Mom didn’t care so much about how the house looks.” Her secret ran me through like a skewer. The constant clutter in