Since I’ve become a mother, I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard the saying, “Excuse the mess, we’re busy making memories.” Or read the poem “Babies Don’t Keep.” Or seen the sign that says, “Good Moms Have Sticky Floors, Messy Kitchens, Laundry Piles, Dirty Ovens and Happy Kids.” And though I’m all about supporting the exhausted, shellshocked, mentally depleted women who have 
wiped butts without actually being awake and dressed a crawling baby in fleece just to get a little of the animal hair off the floor, I resent the implication that being tidy makes me some kind of Mommy-Dearest witch with miserable children.
I’m not saying that my house is spotless. I’m not saying that there isn’t always dog slobber on my windows. I’m not saying that I dust. And if you value your safety, under no circumstances should you ever open the cabinet above my pantry. But I aspire to a clean house. I almost never have a sink full of dirty dishes. I clean my bathroom everyday (My bathroom. Not the kids’ bathroom. That one’s terrifying. But they’re old enough to clean the damn place themselves. And if they don’t, well they’re making their immune systems stronger, so that’s a plus.) I make the bed as soon as I roll out of it. I cannot stand clutter and all surfaces must be clear and/or tidy before I can go to bed. I have even been known to wash a dish or two at four o’clock in the morning.
I’ve heard it said that “the laundry can wait” because your child is only young once. It is clear that whomever made that statement has never actually had to dress a child — and maybe hates me. Because if they had the pleasure of dealing with any kid ever, they would know the trauma of a screeching toddler who will ONLY wear a favorite pair of sweatpants that are currently in the dirty laundry, covered in mac and cheese and probably some snot. Or had to find a second sock in a pile of unfolded clean clothing, in the dark, at 6:30 in the morning so someone doesn’t miss the freaking bus. Or needed a black leotard, not a blue one or a pink one, for their Russian ballet class and had to spray it with Lysol and throw it in the dryer for a 15-minute sad-cleaning. If the laundry hadn’t waited to be washed and folded, none of this ever would have happened. I would not have been forced to run around like a banshee crone, spewing mumbled obscenities.
And yet, my kids do not hate me. They are not complaining that my need to vacuum has caused them mental anguish. I have never been screamed at for scrubbing a toilet. I’ve not once heard them mention that my need for a clear sink is to blame for future as-yet-undisclosed indiscretions. In fact, my kids are pretty happy people, as far as teenagers go. Sometimes, they even appreciate the order I have created. Because everyone needs clean underwear and no one wants to eat soup off a plate.
Don’t get me wrong, I am not judging any mom’s house. I’m not assuming her priorities or deciding where her energy is best spent. All I’m asking is for that same consideration.
Don’t judge me if I won’t allow my kid to go to bed before washing the dishes. It’s not my fault that it’s midnight. The dishes have been there since seven. And I won’t judge you if you step over the cereal on the floor, secretly hoping that when a child gets hungry, he/she will eat it so you don’t have to pick it up (pro tip – this is one of the many reasons to have a dog or three).
Don’t judge me for getting a twitch when my kids mess up the matching, symmetrical placemats that are spaced identically, sanitized, and chosen for their educational properties and I won’t judge you for not having any soap in the bathroom, choosing to leave a package of baby wipes on the counter instead.
Don’t judge me for keeping cleaning supplies in the shower to scrub the ring off the tub instead of shaving my legs and using all the hot water when my kid is waiting to use the shower next and I won’t judge you for hiding dirty dishes in the oven and keeping your kids unclothed until just before your in-laws come over, so they won’t be covered in stains, leading to veiled comments about your slovenly ways.
Don’t judge me for picking food, lint or other schmutz off my kids, like an over-protective mother chimpanzee, and I won’t judge you for sending your kid to school with a lunch bag filled only with a stale roll and $3.67 in change from under the couch cushions.
We all choose our own path. We all decide what’s best for our families. We all love the hell out of our kids. This whole journey would be a lot easier if we just gave each other a thumbs-up each day that our kids are mostly clean, mostly fed and alive. Because my glass house is super-fragile, I don’t even let stones inside. In fact, I get worried when someone sneezes too hard.
Let’s build each other up, mommas. Whether you’ve put an episode of Sesame Street on repeat so you could wash the floor real quick or chosen to close the bathroom door rather than acknowledge the brand new roll of toilet paper your youngest unrolled and tossed around like streamers, we’re all in this together. Pass the wine.
In the spirit of mutual respect, understanding, and the need to sometimes hide in a closet from our children, I offer you this recipe for red wine brownies. Yes. I know. But don’t thank me, thank acookienameddesire.com ) because all I did was find the recipe. Enjoy!
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Laurie Nigro, is the mother of two biological children and one husband. She also takes care of a menagerie of animals that leave throw-up around for her to step in in the middle of the night. Laurie’s passionate about frugal, natural living, which is a nice way of saying she’s a kombucha-brewing, incense-burning, foodie freak who tries really hard not to spend money on crap made by child laborers. You can hear her rant about her muse (aka husband) and other things that have no bearing on your life, in this space each Sunday.
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