A Full, Messy Life With a House To Match

I am about to commit a serious fraud.

This weekend, I will defy years of unflagging take-me-as-I-am honesty and present a home that is a big, fat lie.

Well, maybe. If I can beat the clock.

The latest decline of my moral fiber came when one of the exceedingly organized and cheerful classroom moms began looking for spectacular or unusual homes in our neighborhood to include in a house tour that is one of our public school's big fundraisers.

She heard our place is pretty whack-a-doo (we definitely fall into the unusual, rather than spectacular, category) and asked if she could include ours: a Victorian rowhouse that a previous owner had gutted to resemble a warehouse.

Gasp.

Saying no to a school fundraiser is tantamount to heresy in mommyland.

Saying yes means hundreds of complete strangers will see the paperwork drifts that accumulate in our home like snow on a prairie, the toy bouillabaisse -- wooden snake, robot arm, letter M, plastic pig, SuperBall embedded with Lego brick -- in my kitchen and our own personal Lascaux, courtesy of the little cavemen who express themselves on our walls via Crayola.

I've never tried to impersonate Martha Stewart. I've hosted dinner parties, play dates and birthdays with a cursory clean and an apology to my guests. I have two kids and a busy life and I'd rather spend my time in the park with the boys instead of alphabetizing my books.

The problem is, we are constantly bombarded by unrealistic, impossible images of how we should live.

Catalogues, magazines, newspapers and TV shows are forever displaying a world where side tables aren't junked up by mismatched picture frames, a Hot Wheel car and a sock; dressers and closets aren't vomiting clothes; beds are populated by a small nation of coordinating, useless pillows; and cashmere throws are artfully draped at just the right angle across clean sofas.

This pressure makes people crazy.