As I step from the garage into the house after running errands, I’m greeted by a chaotic display—12 pairs of shoes carelessly strewn across the steps. TWELVE. My heart races just a bit. My daughter’s tiny white Crocs sit next to my son’s oversized high tops, and I remind myself that there will come a day when I walk through this threshold and those shoes will vanish. So, I should cherish this messy moment, right? Surely, I should feel thankful for these little reminders of childhood, because one day they will be memories. RIGHT?!?
I ascend the stairs and pass by their rooms, which I dare not peek into—once a source of curiosity, now just a disaster zone. I used to find joy in seeing the stuffed animals they cuddled at bedtime or the intricate Lego structures scattered across the floor.
Then, they grew older, and the messes multiplied. They grew deaf to my pleas for cleanliness, and their rooms have devolved into what can only be described as hazardous waste sites. I genuinely cannot fathom how it got to this point. My attempts to comprehend the chaos have left me spinning, so I’ve given up. It’s no longer my responsibility to tidy up after them. All I know is that their rooms resemble crime scenes with a distinct odor of failed science experiments. Their beds are a jumble of sheets, and they insist they can navigate the chaos just fine, claiming no need to organize or declutter. Despite watching them search for a single missing shoe for half an hour, they remain unconvinced.
The bathroom looks like a failed attempt at abstract toothpaste art, with soggy towels littered across the floor and toothbrushes precariously positioned in the sink. I could practically knit a sweater with the amount of hair floating around. I frequently remind them that learning to clean up after themselves is a vital life skill. “How on earth can you live like this?!” I must have asked this a million times, and yet, it never seems to resonate. My frustration boils over just contemplating it.
I know it’s typical behavior and not sheer laziness, but I cling to the hope that one day it will click. Perhaps there will be a time when I can exist alongside my kids without the overwhelming clutter. But after 16 years of parenting, I’m feeling pretty disheartened. Despite having only three children, they can create a mess in the living room, dining area, and bathroom faster than I can recover from a Taco Bell feast—trust me, that’s quite fast.
I adore my kids, but I do not enjoy living with the constant scattering of papers, backpacks, and half-empty water bottles. The sight of empty containers on the counter is anything but pleasing, and there’s no chance I’ll cherish these messes as treasured memories. I’ll never miss finding empty chip bags crammed into the sofa cushions or dirty clothes strewn across the floor.
The clutter and chaos, whether caused by my beloved children or not, only heighten my anxiety. I either have to tackle the mess myself or implore my indifferent kids to clean it up—adding yet another task to my never-ending to-do list.
I need clarity and focus. I need to remember where to pick my kids up on weekends and who has activities on what days, not to mention remembering to change my underwear. Being surrounded by messes throws me off balance and definitely messes with my mind.
At this very moment, I’m trying to ignore the 10 empty glasses perched on every windowsill and countertop. I have no doubt I won’t be longing for these messes when my kids eventually leave the nest. (Spoiler alert: I WILL NOT.)
Contrary to what the well-meaning older women in the grocery store tell me, I won’t miss it. I won’t miss the irritation and short temper that arise from the endless clutter. I won’t miss picking up 12 pairs of dirty socks. I won’t miss scrubbing dried toothpaste off the bathroom mirror. I won’t miss nagging my kids to place their dishes in the sink. I won’t.
There may come a day when I regret all the nagging and yelling, but for now, I need to function, and I’m willing to take that chance. After all, one can miss their children while still loathing the sight of overflowing backpacks filled with a year’s worth of clutter and a mountain of shoes blocking the hallway. It doesn’t make me a bad mom to admit that the mess drives me up the wall; it makes me relatable and human.
I WILL miss my kids—their laughter, their sibling antics, and knowing they’re safe at home. But the mess? Definitely not.
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In summary, while I cherish the joy that my children bring into my life, I absolutely do not cherish the chaos that comes with it. As a mother, it’s natural to love your children deeply while simultaneously yearning for a tidier living space.
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