Every so often a parenting essay comes across our radars that really hits home — sometimes literally. Today's case in point: Blogger Brea Schmidt's musings on being a "messy house" family and the small talk that ensues.
In Brea's piece on the blog Her View From Home, she freely admits she counts herself among the moms with messy homes who have hidden behind the disclaimers to drop-in guests that "things have been crazy" or "we're too busy making memories to clean." But the truth is, we're f*cking tired. Or maybe we're experiencing emotional and mental strains that ironically feel easier to sweep under the rug than the dirt that is strewn across our hardwood floors.
I see you, Brea, and I stand with you, girl.
I live in a messy house, or as I like to call it, a junior frat house. (I have two boys, aged 5 and 7.) My home is a disaster at all times.
No, I don't necessarily enjoy living in a mess. And even though I consider myself a creative person, I don't really buy the studies that say we "artists" thrive in messy environments. I'd much prefer to live in a home that looks like it has recently been staged for an open house or a Pottery Barn catalog, but it's not going to happen. Why? Because I'm f*cking tired — both physically and mentally.
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But we're all fucking tired, you might think, as you glance around your own well-kept abode, rolling your eyes at my presumed laziness. I'm not lazy. I've simply accepted the fact that my brain requires a little Netflix and chilled rosé before the laundry needs to be put away or the kids' toys need to be picked up.
By the way, yes, that is spilled marinara sauce stuck on my kitchen counter! I'll get to it, eventually. These small "mental health moments" are more important to my daily well-being than winning a gold star for good housekeeping.
At the same time, I fully admit that I can be thrown into a mad panic when someone asks to drop by, and I realize they're going to need a snow plow to make it through the Legos and Pokemon mini figures on the floor. I'm always embarrassed. Like really embarrassed. But this is the way it is. To love me is to at least tolerate my mess.
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Once upon a time, I used to put in the extra effort to fake a "clean house" for my in-laws who visit from out of town. I would bust out every cleaning supply we own, crazily throwing piles of crap into closets, and even (gasp!) attempt to make the beds. Ten years of marriage and two kids later, even my mad-scramble BS has fallen by the wayside. It bears repeating: I'm f*cking tired, you guys.
But to the other matriarchs of perpetually messy homes, here's the thing: Not only are we going to be all right, but we can own this about ourselves. Stand tall, stand proud, and watch out for those Legos on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night. As you know, they hurt like a b*tch.
