As I step into my home from the garage after running errands, I’m greeted by a staggering sight: 12 pairs of shoes carelessly strewn across the steps. TWELVE. My heart races. My daughter’s petite sandals sit next to my son’s oversized trainers, and I remind myself that one day there will come a time when I walk through this door and those shoes will no longer be there. Shouldn’t I cherish this moment? Shouldn’t I feel gratitude for these remnants of childhood chaos? Right?
I make my way upstairs, carefully avoiding peeking into their (utterly chaotic) rooms—something I once did frequently to check in on their activities. I used to take delight in seeing the stuffed animals they cuddled at bedtime and the Lego masterpieces sprawled across the floor.
But then they grew older, and the messes expanded. They became deaf to my pleas to tidy up. Their rooms have devolved into disaster zones, and I’m left scratching my head, wondering how we got to this point.
Honestly, I have no idea what’s happening in those rooms. It’s overwhelming, so I’ve stopped trying to figure it out. It’s not my responsibility to clean and organize anymore. All I know is that their spaces resemble crime scenes and emit odors reminiscent of failed science experiments. Their beds are a jumble of sheets, and they insist they can navigate the chaos effortlessly, despite having searched for a single shoe for half an hour without success.
The bathroom? It looks like they’re attempting to create abstract art with toothpaste on the mirror. Towels lie soaked on the floor, and the toothbrushes seem to have made a home in the sink, nearly touching the drains. Don’t even get me started on the hair that has accumulated on the floor; I could probably knit a sweater with it.
I repeatedly remind my kids that cleaning up after oneself is a vital life skill. “How can you live like this?!” I’ve asked this question countless times, but to no avail. I know they’re not just being lazy; it’s typical behavior for their age, so I shouldn’t waste my breath. Still, I hold onto the hope that someday it will click for them. Perhaps one day I can exist with my kids without being surrounded by this massive clutter. But I know that’s a fanciful thought. After 16 years of parenting, I feel increasingly defeated. They may only be three, but they can wreak havoc on our living room, dining room, and bathroom quicker than I can finish a fast-food meal.
I adore my children, but I do not adore the constant disarray that fills our home—papers, backpacks, and half-empty water bottles strewn everywhere. Seeing empty containers on the kitchen counter is never a sight I will cherish, and I refuse to romanticize finding crumpled chip bags hidden in the couch cushions or piles of dirty clothes scattered around.
I will not miss the chaos. The clutter, the grime, and the unfinished cups of milk in my line of sight only heighten my anxiety—even if it’s a mess caused by my beloved children. Either I have to clean it up myself or remind my indifferent kids to take responsibility, which only adds to my never-ending to-do list.
I crave clarity and focus. I need to remember pickup times for my kids on weekends, who has activities on what days, and yes, even to change my underwear. Living among the mess disrupts my mental state—it always has and always will.
At this very moment, I’m trying to ignore the ten empty glasses strategically placed across every windowsill and counter in our home. I have no doubt that I won’t yearn for these messes when my kids eventually leave. (Spoiler alert: I WILL NOT.)
Despite what well-meaning seniors in the grocery store may say, I won’t miss it. I won’t yearn for the frustration of navigating a cluttered space. I won’t miss gathering up 12 pairs of dirty socks. I won’t miss scraping dried toothpaste off the window. I won’t miss the constant reminders to put dishes in the sink. I won’t.
Maybe one day I’ll regret all the nagging and fussing over cleanliness. But for now, I need to function, so I’ll take my chances. I’m sure one can miss their children when they’re gone without wishing for a chaotic backpack overflowing with a year’s worth of junk or a pile of shoes claiming the hallway as their territory. Admitting that clutter contributes to my anxiety doesn’t make me a bad mom; it makes me relatable and human.
I WILL miss my kids—their laughter, their camaraderie, the comfort of knowing they are safe at home. But I will not miss the mess.