When it comes to how tidy the house is, I'm definitely a lot more laid back now than I was about six months ago.
That's not saying much, though.
Living in a one-bedroom apartment means that if anything is out of place, it is an intrusion. Anything unnecessary, unused, or uncared for sticks out like a sore thumb. When things aren't put away, I feel as though a parallel messy universe exists in my brain; things must be tidy in order for me to think straight!
However, I'm slowly but surely creating a mental filter for toys. Ruth's toys, I tell myself, are not my mess, because they are generated by her business. Ruth's business is that of play and discovery, and my businesses is that of photography, and running the home. They both generate different sorts of messes: mine on my hard drive and in the kitchen, hers, well, nearly everywhere else.
So each morning, Ruth's business creates a minefield all around the apartment (except the kitchen and bathroom, which I quarantine with baby gates and feel should be treated as Different Adult Spaces in which Necessary Vital Things must occur and so Children's Messes Should Not Be In There. The bedroom? Trashed. The living room? Destroyed.
Every night, after Ruth goes to bed, I gather up all the toys, and put them all into a large laundry basket I have in the living room. I barely bother to sort them nowadays, reserving that as a once-in-awhile kind of activity. It usually happens when I realize that Ruth can't put her puzzles together because all the pieces have sunk back to the bottom of the basket where she can't reach.
Cute Ikea toy organizers where things are labeled? Please, I'm saving that for grade school when she can actually read or recognize a picture label.
It is nice to think that in less than a decade, I will be able to communicate to my child that it is important to clean up after one's self. We'll see how that goes.