Confession: I'm a neatnik.

If there are papers scattered about, I straighten them; if there are food bits on the counter, I wipe them up; if there's a stray scrap on the floor, I toss it away. I probably acquired my bent toward tidiness from my Navy-trained dad.

I ended up marrying someone even more fastidious than I am, whose physician father adheres to strict hygiene standards and whose exacting mother still keeps an immaculate house.

Therefore, when my husband and I had children, it was an adjustment.

"Just let the house go," our experienced friends with older keiki recommended.

"It's more important to spend time with the kids," my mom admonished.

Dishes and laundry couldn't be put off forever, though. And clutter meant we couldn't find things when we needed them, stressful both for us and our tiny tots who weren't able to comprehend the meaning of "wait."

How could we best balance fun and play with orderliness and responsibility? Our two wee ones provided us plenty of opportunities to try to figure out how.

As soon as our firstborn became mobile, she would pull down books and tear up the mail. Now she leaves toys strewn about, and meals inevitably mean crumbs and spills. At least her "artwork" is mild compared to what I did to my parents' friends' home when I was little and decided an entire white wall would look better decorated in red crayon (they had to repaint).

Our youngest child is barely walking, but already he is flipping over furniture, ripping apart books and amusing himself by spewing food. The other day I found him gleefully pulling facial tissue out of a box, creating his very own Mount Kleenex.

Sometimes it seems as though I'm constantly cleaning up. However, I recently had an epiphany when I was, for the seemingly umpteenth time, picking up scattered playthings.

Suddenly, it dawned upon me that this disarray wouldn't last forever, that one day the munchkins would grow up and leave home. Our house would once again become orderly and quiet but the pitter-patter of little feet, the shrieks of laughter, and the trails of toys and clothes would only exist in our memories.

I gathered up the remaining items more slowly, reminding myself to cherish these fleeting years when the children are young, and to be grateful even for the messes, which ultimately reflect the presence of our beloved keiki.

Monica Quock Chan is a freelance writer who lives in Honolulu with her husband and children.