“I can’t believe it! This is so mortifying!” I overheard my 9-year-old, Jake, exclaim to his 6-year-old twin brothers, Noah and Leo.
“What’s so mortifying?” I inquired as I stepped into our playroom, where they were immersed in a Lego project.
“This!” Jake waved his hand around, his exasperation clear as he indicated the entire space. “This playroom is filled with baby stuff!” The twins nodded vigorously in agreement. “These drawings are so cringy! Plus, they’re just stuck to the walls with tape,” Jake added disdainfully, pointing at the colorful creations that represented years of artistic effort from all three boys.
I paused, taking a step back to absorb the scene more fully. The walls were adorned with hand-drawn soldiers, watercolor gingerbread men from Christmas past, and hearts crafted to express “All the Reasons We Love Mommy” for Valentine’s Day. There were whimsical leprechaun puppets fashioned from paper bags and cheerful daisies showcasing my twins’ smiling faces on green pipe cleaner stems. A life-sized outline of Jake from when he was just four years old also graced the room, alongside the “All About Me” posters we painstakingly crafted when they entered kindergarten.
Jake had undoubtedly seen the beautifully curated playrooms of other families—those where creativity, energy, and motivation transformed children’s artwork into framed masterpieces or charming gallery walls.
When our toy room first came to life, I was still navigating the chaos of new motherhood. My husband and I moved into our freshly built home with our 3-year-old and a pair of newborn twins, all while I was recovering from a C-section. My in-laws helped unpack, organize the kitchen, and arrange furniture, while I sat holding or feeding one baby, or sometimes both. Honestly, I had little interest in decor; my sole focus was on caring for my kids and managing the constant crying (theirs and mine).
For the next three years, my husband and I battled through the daily grind of parenting, and I counted it a victory if I could squeeze in some playtime amid the endless cycle of feeding, diapering, and getting the kids to sleep. Did I look around my home and compare it to those of other moms who had beautifully organized, feminine touches? Absolutely. But instead of rallying my nonexistent creative energy, I opted for a glass of wine, some mindless TV with my spouse, and an early bedtime, all to prepare for the next day’s chaos.
As a result, our home remained sparsely decorated, unpainted, and lacking in personal touches—except for one room: the playroom. The chaotic, disorganized, somewhat embarrassing playroom. I cherished every piece of my kids’ artwork, whether it was a simple paint splash on a torn piece of paper or elaborate crafts. Armed with Scotch tape, I found bare patches of wall to showcase their creations. These efforts, borne from a weary, un-crafty mom, represented the best I could do at that moment.
Now that my kids are 9, 6, and 6, things have changed. Our home still lacks fresh paint, but there are more decorative elements than before. With the basement finished, the playroom sees less action, yet I continue to tape their artwork to its lonely walls.
As I squinted at the room, I tried to view it through the eyes of those who found it embarrassing—the very people I devoted my time and energy to raising. I began to see through the dizzying array of construction paper and tape and recognize the mother I am. An imperfect, messy, and sometimes tired mom who embraces spontaneity. A mom who kisses scrapes, reads bedtime stories, pushes swings, attends little league games, comforts worries, assists with homework, prepares meals, hosts playdates, and plans birthday parties. A mom who, after tending to her children’s needs, chooses to replenish her own energy rather than transforming the house into a Pinterest-worthy space. A mom who, when her kids have what they need to thrive, grabs the Scotch tape and shows them they’re cherished through their artwork.
Taking a deep breath, I began to carefully peel the taped edges of a rainbow fish from the wall. I wasn’t sure how long it would take to reimagine this room or what the end result would be, but I knew I had to start somewhere. The fish, half off the wall and staring back at me with its crooked sequined eye, seemed to question my resolve. I returned its gaze, thinking to myself, This is going to be harder than I thought.
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In summary, being a ‘Scotch Tape’ mom means embracing the imperfections of motherhood while cherishing the journey. It’s about prioritizing your children’s happiness over societal expectations and finding joy in the messiness of family life.
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