“I know! It’s so embarrassing,” I overheard my 9-year-old, Jake, exclaim to his 6-year-old twin brothers, Max and Leo.
“What’s embarrassing?” I inquired, entering our toy room where they were engrossed in building with Legos.
“This!” Jake waved his arm in a dramatic motion, indicating the entire space. “This toy room is filled with baby stuff!” The twins nodded vigorously in agreement. “These pictures are so silly! Plus, they’re just taped to the walls,” Jake added disdainfully, pointing at the cherished artwork that he and his brothers had created over the years at home, preschool, and now elementary school.
I blinked and stepped back to take in the room. The walls were adorned with toy soldiers, water-colored gingerbread men made during Christmas, and hearts crafted from notepaper filled with “All the Reasons We Love Mommy” for Valentine’s Day. There were leprechaun puppets fashioned from paper bags with orange yarn for hair and springtime daisies featuring the round faces of my twins attached to green pipe cleaner stems. A life-sized outline of Jake from when he was just 4 years old was also present, alongside the “All About Me” posters for all three boys that we had painstakingly created for kindergarten.
Jake has undoubtedly seen how other moms curate their children’s playrooms. They possess the energy and creativity to frame their kids’ art, arrange them in shadow boxes, and create stunning gallery walls to showcase these masterpieces throughout their homes.
When our toy room first came to life, I was still recovering from a C-section after moving into our new home with my 3-year-old and 5-day-old twins. My in-laws unpacked boxes, organized kitchen items, and arranged furniture while I sat, exhausted, holding one baby or the other, completely indifferent to how things were set up. My focus was solely on caring for my kids and trying to minimize the crying.
For the next three years, my husband and I navigated the chaos of parenthood. I considered it a winning day if I could fit in some playtime among the endless routine of feeding, diapering, and putting the kids to sleep. Did I sometimes glance around at my home, comparing it to others, noticing the organized, feminine, crafty, and decorative touches that were glaringly absent in mine? Absolutely. But instead of summoning my nonexistent inner Martha Stewart, I opted for a glass of wine, some mindless TV with my husband, and sleep by 10 p.m. to prepare for the next day’s challenges.
Consequently, our house remained sparsely decorated and unpainted, with one exception: the toy room. It was a chaotic, slapdash, and, yes, embarrassing space. However, I took joy in my children’s creativity, even if it was merely a few paint splotches on a torn piece of paper. Armed with Scotch tape, I found a bare patch of stark white wall to showcase their efforts. These decorative attempts by a weary, uncrafty mother were the least and the most I could offer at that moment.
Now that my kids are 9, 6, and 6, a lot has changed. While the interior of our house remains unpainted, there are more decorative touches than before. With the basement finished, the kids rarely play in the toy room, yet I still diligently tape their artwork to its walls.
As I squinted at the toy room, I tried to see it through the eyes of those who found it embarrassing—the very people who helped create it. When I opened my eyes wide and spun around, not only did I see the dizzying array of taped construction paper, I saw the kind of mother I am: imperfect, messy, and exhausted. I’m a mother who kisses boo-boos, reads stories, pushes swings, attends baseball games, calms fears, assists with homework, prepares meals, hosts playdates, and organizes birthday parties.
After ensuring my children have everything they need to thrive, I choose to rejuvenate myself at the end of the day rather than trying to make my home look like a Pottery Barn catalog. I’m the kind of mother who, when the kids are settled, takes that last bit of energy, pulls out the Scotch tape, and shows her kids she’s proud of them.
Taking a deep breath, I began carefully peeling the taped edges of a rainbow fish from the wall of the toy room. I wasn’t sure how long it would take to transform this space into something less embarrassing or if I would even have the energy to do it. The fish, flapping half off the wall, seemed to glare at me with one of its crooked, hastily placed sequined eyes. I met its gaze and thought, This is going to hurt me more than it hurts you.
This article was originally published on October 1, 2015.
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In summary, being a parent is about embracing the chaos and imperfections while cherishing the moments spent with your children. The toy room may not resemble a magazine spread, but it reflects love and creativity—an homage to the joyful messiness of motherhood.