I was sitting cross-legged at my kitchen table this morning drinking my coffee and prodding my son to eat his breakfast. We had spent 30 minutes just lying in bed, unable to pull ourselves out of the comfy-ness and into the reality that it was a work/school day. The kid really is my mini.
The house was quiet-ish and bright – the sunshine was gratefully welcomed after the endless winter we seem to be having. I looked across into the living room. A card table with a wadded up king-sized sheet perched atop sat in the middle of the floor. The remnants of the fort our son demanded we put up last night after bath. Brightly colored, toddler-sized plastic tools strewn across the floor underneath. He “built” the fort of course.
Thin patches of dust were sprouting on the organizer that held baskets of his toys and photos of his face from the past two years. More toys littered the floor below.
Dishes waiting to be loaded into the dishwasher or hand washed take up nearly every inch of counter space next to the sink. Freshly cleaned dishes wait to be unloaded and the cycle repeated. Literally every time we wash dirty dishes and have a clean counter, almost immediately a new dirty dish appears.
A basket full of clean laundry sits on my bedroom floor, getting wrinklier by the minute. Laundry and dishes follow the same endless cycle.
Let’s get real. This is life. This is what motherhood really looks like. Gone are the days of pristine floors and everything in its place, at all times.
Instead, it’s been replaced with the evidence that people are actually living there. The dreams of luxurious white couches are replaced with pen marks on the micro-suede sectional we’ve had for 9+ years because my son stole my grocery list and wanted to color as he sat next to his very achy pregnant mom.
My once indulgent escape to the bathtub has become my son’s creative canvas, bath crayons make squiggles and shapes. Showers have taken the place of a good soak. A good shower ranks up there with a quiet cup of coffee and a smooth glass of wine, and they happen about just as often.
It’s hard to remember what I imagined life as a parent would be like since I am so enveloped by my current reality. Maybe I thought I would carry on my incessant desire to have a clean and organized home. My son would be dressed in these adorable outfits and look like the little gentleman you see on social media (reality check: kids don’t care what they look like and clothes are expensive as shit. Kids consignment stores are my go-to and I love it).
I’ve never considered myself a materialistic person, and becoming a mom IRL has solidified the fact that stuff is just stuff. Meaningless and expensive. Being grateful for what I have even if it isn’t magazine worthy is more valuable than anything. My husband and I work hard for the life we have, and even if it isn’t glamorous, it’s perfect for us. We have a happy and healthy son who has made our house a home.