I like a tidy house as much as the next person. Nothing would make me feel as calm, in control, and satisfied as a clutter-free home in which the surfaces of furnishings and countertops are readily visible.
The truth is, the energy and attention to detail required to actually create said tidiness eludes me. Nothing interests me less than plugging in a vacuum cleaner, folding clothes, or organizing my spice drawer.
And, for a long time, I thought that homes occupied by children were, by their very nature, filled with chaotic mess and disarray. Sure, I’d seen tidy houses when dropping by for birthday parties and dinners—but that was only because these folks had planned these events, and taken pains to clean up before welcoming others past their hearths, right?
For many years, I told myself that the tidy family home was a myth. A sort of utopian ideal to strive toward, but that no one ever actually achieves. That is, until my son befriended a kid who, upon entering our home for the first time, blurted out, “Wow, is your house always this messy?” I stifled the urge to throttle him and, instead, cheerfully responded, “Yep! Pretty much!” I wasn’t about to explain that I’d actually spent a few minutes putting a few things away before he came by.
I made excuses in my mind for how and why this child’s home always seemed as meticulously tidy and clean as a page from Architectural Digest, whether we were stopping by for an unexpected visit or a pre-planned playdate. Surely, they had a regular cleaner. Or, likely, his mother didn’t work outside the home and instead spent her days ensuring nothing marred the mark-free walls, the flowers arranged just-so on the table, or the white (white!) shag carpet. Neither was true—and they even had more kids than I did.
Turns out, there are parents of young kids out there—real, living human beings—who can walk across their living room without dodging Lego pieces, or slipping on Hot Wheel cars, or wiping out on half-completed comic strip pages. There are family homes in which shoes are removed upon entry, and tidily arranged on racks by the door without complaint. There are hallways decorated with photos and paintings in actual frames—and hung in feng-shui friendly arrangements that flow effortlessly from one perfect visage to the next.
This is not my reality.
Mine is a house filled with chaos, from the hodgepodge of “art” on the walls (some framed, some not), to the books piled in random stacks on random surfaces, to the dishes left wallowing in the sink—not to mention the screams of near-constant sibling altercations.
Honestly, I have no excuse for this state of affairs. It’s just that cleaning, tidying, organizing? It’s all just so uninteresting, uninspiring, to me. And when I do take steps toward addressing a mess, I often get so overwhelmed by the task before me that I freeze, like a deer in the headlights.
Am I doing my children a disservice? Probably. I’m about as good at motivating them to clean up their messes as I am at motivating myself to clean up mine. But here’s the thing:
Actually, there is no “thing”. No great insightful reveal, no earth-shattering conclusion to explain why, and how, this is not just okay—but actually a brave and bold stance against the unrealistic societal ideals we are subject to.
I’m just lazy. I care, but simply not enough to address the issue. Perhaps, one day, I’ll give a shit about it—and I honestly hope that I do. It would be nice to live like a proper adult, and not have to spend 10 minutes every morning trying to find a matching pair of shoes. But for now, and the foreseeable future, visitors will have to enter at their own risk.
Shrug.
BATSHIT PARENTING 