Last week we changed residences.

The process of moving is not nearly as neat and tidy as that sentence though. In fact, things are still quite messy and thrown together, since we moved on Wednesday. Baby gates are propped up against the still unfinished stairwell…still waiting to be installed. The kitchen sink still isn’t draining properly and has grit and grime caked on it from washing out cabinets and mopping up construction dust. The laundry is piled nearly to the ceiling in my bedroom. And the Garage is filled high with boxes waiting to be unpacked.

Believe it or not though, there have been some improvements. At least we’re no longer straddling two homes in the limbo that we’ve been living in for weeks now. I went to the old house for the last time on Thursday and scrubbed it like it was going out of style. I put on my favorite Dixie Chicks mix and went to town (especially on the stove and counter tops). My husband vaccuumed, and we gathered up all of the odds and ends that would fit in our car. I fully intended to go back Friday evening and finish cleaning…shampoo some stains on the carpet, clean the blinds, mop the kitchen floor, and sweep out the basement and garage.

BUT, by Friday afternoon, my feet were so sore that I couldn’t stand on them anymore. I had been working tirelessly on the new house, and even though I had a friend to help me that evening all I could do was sit and visit with her while she lined my new cabinets with contact paper. So Saturday would have to be the day. The cleaning WOULD get done. I was having horrible visions of my landlord doing the final walk through of the old house and condemning me as a loathsome lazy pig.

Yes. Saturday I would do it. Saturday I would get that place finished up. Except that by the time I went to bed Friday night I had a headache to go along with my aching feet.

Saturday morning I awoke and I didn’t feel rested at all. I needed an entire season to hibernate, but there was work to be done. My mental cogs were beginning to turn and I was just about to heave myself out of bed when my husband woke up. He said he thought I had been pushing myself too hard. He said he thought I should stay home today, and have someone watch our daughter while he finished up at the old house. He wouldn’t be able to get all the deep cleaning done, but it would just have to be good enough. My usual pattern is to argue when he suggests things like this. Because OBVIOUSLY it IS the end of the world if the house that we move out of is not spotless. However, on this particular day what he said rang true. I was going to be headed for big trouble.

So, I did it. I just let it be good enough. I’m working on not worrying about our security deposit, or considering the opinion of our landlord. I did the best I could under the circumstances, and really isn’t that’s what we’re always telling our kids to do? “Just do your best honey” I hear the sitcom Mom in my head say.

When do you just have to let things be good enough? Do you ever push yourself past your limit, and what’s been the outcome?