I’m not joking when I say you can’t come to my house. This isn’t some playful excuse about a few stray toys or wrinkled tablecloths (though, yes, both of those are true). I’m not being overly dramatic, nor do I suffer from OCD or any anxiety disorder that would lead me to believe you might judge me for the dishes piled in the sink (and yes, there are dishes in the sink). The reality is that my home is an unmitigated disaster, and trust me, you don’t want to see it. If you did, you’d probably be horrified. That’s why only my mother has set foot inside our home in nearly a year.
This isn’t just a minor inconvenience; my house is a bona fide catastrophe. But let’s be clear: while it’s a mess, it’s not dirty. There are no infestations, no leftover food lurking around, and certainly no half-drunk cups strewn about. We manage to keep our dishes tidy by the sink and somehow stay on top of the laundry—thanks to my husband. We take out the trash and clear away any stray debris.
But the rest? Well, it’s a whole different story. Picture this: a home where, regardless of the season, it’s perpetually Christmas. We’ve left the holiday decorations up for months—yes, months. At this point, I’ve decided they’ll stay until they’re relevant again. So, Merry Christmas! The tree is adorned, the ornaments are gathering dust, and the nativity scene is scattered throughout the living room. I’ve sworn off decorating for any holiday in the future because we clearly can’t clean up after ourselves.
I’ve told the kids that this year, we’re going to tidy up. Just one tree is all we’ll have. They nodded in agreement, which is a sure sign that my house is really in disarray. I’ve even had to keep the front curtains drawn; we can’t let the neighbors glimpse our Christmas village in the middle of July.
To make matters worse, we’ve surrendered the front of the house to the children. Their playroom took over what used to be our formal dining room. We stored our family furniture and moved their toys in, believing it would help contain the chaos. Spoiler alert: it didn’t work. Instead, that once-formal dining room is now a veritable wasteland of toys, largely thanks to my husband’s reluctance to part with anything. “We might use that one day,” he says, or “The kids love it too much!” So now, the toys have spilled into the living room, creating an obstacle course that’s almost impossible to navigate.
Then there’s the usual clutter: papers piled on tables, crafting supplies left scattered, unfinished art projects, and laundry baskets everywhere. I’ve had a mountain of clothes on our dog crate for a year, and I need to tackle that.
When your home is in such disarray, it’s hard not to feel judged by others. You’re probably thinking, “Why doesn’t she just clean it up?” Well, let me tell you—I genuinely don’t have the time. My husband works full-time, leaving home at the crack of dawn and returning home in chronic pain. He does what he can, but it’s not much, and I love him for it. Meanwhile, I’m busy educating our children (yes, we keep that part organized; we don’t misplace library books).
As a work-from-home parent, I’m up at 5 a.m. every day, including weekends, and I dive straight into my work. I pause only to parent and then get back to work again. I don’t stop until I crawl into bed at night. So yes, my home is a mess, but I’m also building a career out of something I love. I can’t afford help, either.
With both of us working 12-14 hours a day while parenting, something had to give, and it was the state of our home. Go ahead, judge me. I’m averaging four to five hours of sleep a night. Do you think I should sacrifice even more sleep to take down the Christmas tree? If there were a hell, I’d suggest you go there. In any spare moment, I choose to spend time with my kids, not clean.
Eventually, when December rolls around, the decorations will finally become relevant. We’ll get the kids to clean their playroom, and I’ll carve out precious time to fold the laundry. I’ve even marked a special day on the calendar to take everything down. At that point, we’ll reclaim our space and implement a strict “anything left out gets tossed” rule.
So, until then, my home remains a mess, and no, you can’t come in. It’s isolating and frustrating, but thankfully, my mom is kind enough to overlook the chaos. I love you, Mom, and your understanding means the world to me. Only a few close friends, those who won’t judge, are allowed inside.
As for the rest of you: stay out. Amazon, leave the packages on the porch. Pizza delivery, I’ll meet you at the side door. I can’t risk revealing the Christmas village in all its glory.
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In summary, my home may be chaotic, but it’s a reflection of our busy lives. While I’m focused on building a career and nurturing my children, the mess will have to wait.
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