Just in case you forgot, I don’t have all my shit together.
This morning I woke to find that the dog had tried to pull the homemade bunting garland off our tree sometime in the night. I looked over and he was laying on his bed, clearly exhausted from being up all night. Thankfully we had the foresight to anchor that shit to the wall or I am sure it would have been much worse than cockeyed and disheveled.
Before I had kids I would read blogs and articles about the insanity of motherhood and the peanut butter smeared on every imaginable surface and I thought I would be different. “Oh no!” I told myself. “I will be pretty and fit and always always shave my legs. I will never, ever give them sugar or processed foods. My house will be clean and perpetually smell like apple pie. Oh and I shall knit all their clothes and let them play only with homemade wooden toys.” Yeah, I was a douche bag. It wasn’t my fault really. I know friends and family members who have no kids are thinking the same thing when the read this stuff and witness it first hand. I just bite my tongue when I feel the urge to enlighten them.
I never thought I would be the frazzled looking mom with the greasy pony tail buying stupid toys because I just don’t want to deal with the meltdown. And yet, here we are. I can’t recall the last time I washed my hair. Monday maybe? Wait, what day is it anyway? I never thought my body would ever be this doughy. The other night I was going through old photos and I realized a few things; 1) just how much I had neglected my eyebrow manicuring since Silas was born; 2) I had no idea what a messy house was back then; 3) how perfectly wonderful my pre baby body was (yeah, the same one I loved to loathe back in the day) and 4) what the hell did we do with all our spare time and energy?!
Fast forward to today, and it would appear that Huck and kids are in cahoots to make me mental. After nearly four years of being a mom, I am still astounded by the damage they can do in very short periods of time. Every time I take 15 minutes to do something that isn’t perpetual sweeping, picking up, or tidying, any semblance of order quickly dissolves. It is ridiculous. I know my attempts are futile, but if I were to stop, I am quite sure our house would look like an episode of Hoarders in about 48 hours.
I am certain our children are no different than any others in their mess making abilities, though I like to believe they are rather gifted in this category. They paint windows and tables with their food and leave trails and piles of apple peel in every imaginable place. I have a pile of dirt, fur, glitter, cereal, and paper in the corner that I feel isn’t worth my while to pick up with the dustpan until it resembles a small mammal. What is the point, a new pile is only an hour away.
I brush Poppy’s hair at least once, if not twice per day, but you would never know it. It resists order just as much my two children do. I fold blankets and stack them on a chair to place in a cupboard only to turn around and see that someone has efficiently flipped them off and unfolded them while I was changing a diaper, sopping up spilled milk, or filling a snack request. I clean one side of the front room while they pull the opposite side apart. And so goes my day.
I’d like to get out more, but that is a feat in and of itself. Even when they are strapped into a double wide jogging stroller with books, toys, drinks, and snacks the demands are endless and I can’t fit through most store doors or aisles anyway. I always think I am going to be uber productive, but my nerves (and therefore, my brain functioning) are usually shot after about an hour or two.
I am a rumpled mess 98% of the time and I sometimes fantasize about what we would do if we didn’t have kids, but then I remember the wise words of my very favourite comedian Louis CK, “What the hell is an adult without kids? What’s the point?”. Someday my house will be quiet and orderly and my brain functions will return to normal and I know I will get weepy just thinking of their sweet little jam covered faces and the way they smell after a bath in their fresh jammies. My only hope is that they give me loads of grand kids, visit often and forgive my parenting blunders.
Until then, I have a glittery creature in the corner to either name or dispose of and a toddler who has unraveled a spool of thread and needs detangling.