When I was twelve, my mother had a dramatic meltdown that many adults only fantasize about but lack the courage to execute. After days of nagging my brothers to tidy up their mess, she finally snapped. She declared herself the ruler of the household and flung the contents of their bedroom out the window. There’s only so much a parent can take before their patience shatters—kind of like how my sanity feels right now. My kids better watch out; I’m teetering on the edge.
I have four children: three sons and a daughter. Let’s delve into the chaos created by my sons first, shall we? Picture this: they share a hallway bathroom with a spacious tub and a newly renovated vanity. Sounds lovely, right? That is until you see it covered in boxer briefs and—wait for it—urine.
Let’s discuss the urine first. Aiming seems to be an alien concept to them. It’s as if they just drop their pants and let it fly everywhere. That’s why mothers of boys are hoarding Clorox Wipes—trust me, it’s a survival tactic. They do shower daily, which is a win in my book, but somehow, whatever they wore ends up right in the middle of the floor, never making it back to their rooms. By the time the third one hops in, you can find a soggy pile of striped underpants that I’ll have to transfer to a laundry basket—hopefully one that doesn’t leak down the steps.
Oh, those steps! That’s where clutter goes to die. Every single day, I collect items from the first floor and stack them neatly on the steps for them to take back to their rooms. Very June Cleaver of me, I know. But they’d rather risk falling over mountains of shoes, books, and toys than pick anything up. They’ll walk past that pile a dozen times before they even acknowledge it. And then they have the audacity to claim they can’t find their shoes. That’s when I start to think about a little help from the pharmacy.
Now, let’s venture into the kitchen, shall we? Do you buy your cereal in those gigantic boxes from Costco? I do, just for it to become countertop décor. No one actually eats it from a bowl—oh no. Instead, they prefer to take handfuls, creating a trail like Hansel and Gretel from the family room back to the kitchen. They might empty the box, but it’s not going in the pantry or the trash. Nope, they love decorating my brand new granite countertops that I waited five years for with breakfast remnants. And to top it all off? They’ll leave the milk out, too, because they decided to munch on the cereal dry.
And then there’s my daughter. At four, she has less stuff and I still supervise her bath time, but don’t be fooled; she can wreak havoc like the best of them. Her room looks like a tornado hit it. The dolls—oh my goodness, the dolls! They’re scattered everywhere, complete with clothes, accessories, and shoes. She has doll stands, but they’re just face down on the floor, resembling a chaotic crime scene. If you happen to step on one, she gets upset, claiming you’re “hurting them.” She even has a wheelchair for her dolls, which I swear has been used because she’s been trampled by a parent trying to avoid the agony of stepping on sharp doll shoes!
To clarify, I’m not a clean freak. My bedroom has its fair share of clutter, but no one is telling me how to manage it. I’m 41! I can do what I want. You’re 10, so pick up those LEGOs scattered across the floor! Repeat after me: “I am your mother, not your maid!” (We can skip the “not your maid” part because, let’s be honest, people will judge.)
My kids should realize that I have a long memory. The day my mother emptied my brothers’ room, I was in the backyard, watching everything float through the air. I observed her as she removed the screen and threw everything out with a flair. I was ready to take notes. I learned from the best, and I know how liberating it must have felt to let all that go! So help me, they better shape up. One more wet towel in the hallway, and the entire neighborhood will know what those boxer briefs look like!
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In summary, parenting is a whirlwind of chaos and clutter, especially with four children. From messy bathrooms to cereal trails in the kitchen, the struggle is real. Yet, through it all, the memories of my own mother’s epic meltdown remind me that sometimes, it’s okay to let go and embrace the mess.