Messes make my throat tighten, and glitter? I can’t even. The only beverage our children get is water, as cleaning up spilled juice sends me into a rage. It creates more than just a puddle on the floor; it splatters on furniture legs. I know this all too well because I’m the type of mom who scrubs the floor on my hands and knees until every last drop is gone.
“Just relax!” my well-meaning friends and family advise. Relaxation sounds nice, and I genuinely want to embrace it. I attempt to mimic those who are laid-back—like handing out juice without feeling like I’m dying inside. When spills happen, I calmly instruct my child to clean up, reminding myself that I’m no longer neurotic. I’m on a mission to be chill.
I hand my child a paper towel and consciously avert my eyes from the mess they leave behind, forcing a smile because that’s what relaxed people do. They navigate chaos without gritting their teeth, even when grape juice is tracked through the house. It appears effortless, but being relaxed is a significant challenge.
Then, my child taps me on the shoulder and asks, “Where’s my real mommy?”
That night, I lie awake, imagining ants marching toward the juice stain that remains. I eventually find myself scrubbing the kitchen floor at 2 a.m. because that’s what uptight mothers do; they can’t rest until everything is in order. Fingerprints on windows, toothpaste splatters on the mirror, crumbs everywhere—it all drives me insane. My cleaning supplies are abundant, with Clorox wipes in every bathroom, as nothing irritates me more than a toilet that isn’t pristine. My quirks are problematic, especially as the mother of three kids under the age of 7. I’m either raising future members of Obsessive-Compulsive Anonymous or setting them up for years of therapy—or maybe both.
My neuroses peaked for several years until I found myself outnumbered by children who produced snot, poop, and messes at an exponential rate. They insisted on wearing superhero costumes to the grocery store and thought it was hilarious to crush Cheerios into dust and blow it around. Kids simply don’t care about adult obsessions; they prioritize snack time and imaginary friends named “Banana.”
By the time my third child arrived, I was running on fumes. I fought valiantly to keep everything clean—clipping nails and scrubbing floors—until one chaotic day when the baby was crying, the toilet overflowed, and my older ones engaged in a food fight all at once. The messes were overwhelming. That was the moment my last shred of concern vanished. Poof. I was out of cares to give.
I wish I could say that I feel liberated by worrying less about messes. I’d love to tell you I’m at peace with the permanent rings in my sinks and the uncertain state of my toilets, but honestly, I just feel exhausted.
However, when fatigue takes over an uptight mother, it forces her to slow down. When I finally do lie down, my children gather around, playing with my hair and poking at my face, asking innocent questions like, “Does Mommy have a belly button?” It’s a magical moment—until someone inevitably gets a bloody nose.
Perhaps my children will fondly remember their childhood and think of how tidy our home was, or maybe they’ll recall my freakouts over bathroom messes. Regardless, they will know they were loved—imperfectly, but with everything I had. For neurotic parents, that kind of love is all-consuming.
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Summary
This article explores the struggles of a neurotic mother trying to maintain a clean home amidst the chaos of raising three young children. It highlights the constant battle between wanting order and the reality of parenting, ultimately embracing the love shared within the family despite imperfections.