I truly never thought I would ever be the person who cared how clean her house was. I mean, of course, I don’t want to see dirt or sticky stuff on the floor or bugs crawling around, but a little clutter? Meh. A little disorganization? Whatevs. A little chaos? Who cares?

But, WOW, was I ever wrong.

You wouldn’t know it by looking, but I actually deeply, deeply care if my house is clean or messy. If someone pays a surprise visit, and my house is out of order (which it always is), I immediately have an internal panic attack.

What are they thinking about me? Do they see the cobwebs in the corners? Do they see the dried applesauce on the floor under the table? Are they judging the piles of laundry on my kitchen table, yet to be folded and put away? Do they think I am a slob? Do they think I am a lousy mother because I let my children live in a house of chaos…toys on the floor and breakfast plates still needing rinsed and barely a place to sit on the couch because of all the books and sippy cups and 178 stuffed animals.

I’m painting a pretty picture, huh?

Please don’t call CPS.

But really. Even the sweet and gentle offer to help me clean the house makes me feel horrible about myself…because clearly the person noticed. It bothers them, even. I don’t know. It’s my own frustration with my shortcomings when it comes to housekeeping and child-rearing at the same time that makes me feel bristled and raw and exposed when I know someone else is literally doing my dirty work.

I was thinking about this the other day while I was feverishly cleaning the house in preparation for a family brunch I was hosting. I was stomping around, saying, “Someday, my house WILL be clean.”

SOMEDAY, my house will be clean.

Someday, my house will be clean.

Someday, my house will be clean.

Someday, my house will be….clean?

And I sat with that thought for a while.

It’s true. Someday, my house will be clean. But it will be clean because it is empty. My children won’t live here anymore.

Or worse. They will live here, but they won’t want to hang out here because their friends or boyfriends or school events or whatever will be more important/fun/awesome/entertaining than me.

It’s true. Someday, there won’t be crusty applesauce on the floor…because a there wasn’t a toddler learning to feed herself at the high chair.

There won’t be Cheerios hiding under the rugs because a baby didn’t drop her cup and sweetly say “uh oh” with that Icouldpinchyourcheeksallday look on her face.

There won’t be tiny socks under the bed or in the bathroom or on the couch or by the door because there won’t be tiny feet.

There won’t be dolls to step over or blankies to slip on or picture books to stack up because, well, “It’s baby stuff, Mom.”

There won’t be tiny pajamas and Disney underwear and pink hair bows and plastic bracelets strewn about like the morning after a toddler fraternity party. Because there will be real fraternity parties. And, just, no.

It’s true. Someday, my house will be clean. But it will be boring. And it will probably be sad. And I will kick myself for all the moments I spent getting angry at the little messes that seemed so huge to me. I will regret putting that pressure on myself to have a perfectly clean house while still allowing my children to learn and grow and explore and live.

My house will be clean and it will be quiet and it will be peaceful. Sure, it will be great…for a little while. I will be able to do whatever I want, whenever I want, not having to work around nap schedules and feeding schedules and bath times and bed times and play dates and story times at the library.

But I will miss all of that. To the very core of my being, I will miss it.

So, for today, my house will be messy. And probably for tomorrow. And for the day after that. Really, until I host another family gathering.

If you decide to pay me a surprise visit, just know what you’re walking into ahead of time.

Clear a piece of couch and stay for a while.

And, please, don’t worry about cleaning.

Do you know the God’s honest worst store to visit with young children?

Hobby Lobby.

I almost would rather go to Goodwill on a Saturday and tell my children to lick anything in the store than take them to Hobby Lobby.

Something about that store and all its thousands of glass trinkets and decorative fruit and spools of ribbon makes my wonderful daughters turn into those crazy shoppers on Supermarket Sweep (Who remembers that show? Always go for the gold-wrapped ham. Always.). They want to run and touch and grab and show and squeal with glee.

What makes it even better is the shopping carts are ridiculously small. There’s no way I can fit both of my kids comfortably in the cart and have room for any items.

But what’s a mama to do when I need some burlap or bead supplies or a cute holiday decoration?

Well, if my husband isn’t home, I bite the bullet and take them with me. I talk to them in the car about what they are allowed to do and not do, and what my expectations are, and that the rubber grapes are not for eating. I take a deep breath and we enter the “Land of No.”

It doesn’t take long for me to start breaking into a sweat. I scold myself for even trying.

And then, like here recently, I will look up from returning 17 decorative knobs to their respective bins, and see a little old lady staring at me. Well, staring through me. The look of horror on her face, as if wild zoo animals had just escaped and taken refuge inside this very store.

Call me sensitive. Call me defensive. But I’m pretty sure she was judging me.

I could just hear it already.

“Back in my day, my children listened to me and didn’t touch things they weren’t supposed to touch.”

Fast forward to our checkout experience. Hobby Lobby is hard enough to get through with children, but then they stack their checkout lanes with cheap toys and junk candy and those stuffed animals with the HUGE eyes that are so cute, yet ridiculously creepy. My girls typically have to hug each one and ask me no less than 208 times for some Pez.

When I finally get them to the cashier, I have to set Charlotte up on the counter so I can keep her from running away while I pay. Of course, she grabs a package of M&M’s and tries to open them. When I don’t let her, she screams and does a Lebron-worthy flop, going limp in my arms just as I am opening my wallet.

Cue four little old ladies to pull in line behind me. The first one in line just gawks at me. At me? I am not the one flopping around! The least she can do is give my child a few looks. But of course, it’s my fault, even though I was trying to do the right thing by, you know, not giving into my child’s every desire and pumping her full of 240 calories of pure sugar at 9:30 a.m.

Her straight-lined mouth and palpable annoyance with the spectacle she was seeing was really no match for the cashier’s, um, “sunny” disposition.

Because mustering even a half-hearted smile or chuckle or even an insincere “I remember those days…” kind of comment would be too much compassion for that hour of the day.

I am finally able to pay for and load up our purchases into the tiny cart, push it to the parking lot with one hand while carrying Charlotte out around the waist like a squealing piglet…Noelle trailing behind.

“It happens.”

“You’re doing a good job, Honey.”

“Raising little ones can be so hard sometimes!”

I would have loved to hear any of those over the deafening silence and critical stares.

There tends to be this disconnect between the people who currently have young children and those who had young children many moons ago. They simply have forgotten (figuratively and literally) what it was like to have to manage public outings. I realize there weren’t as many places to shop and eat and that moms just didn’t haul their kids out and about like they do now, but seriously? A little empathy goes a long way.

Kids might be different “these days,” but I can guarantee you that they have been ornery and disobedient since the beginning of time. They have yelled when they weren’t supposed to yell and they have run when they weren’t supposed to run. They have broken things and touched things and cried over candy they couldn’t have.

Let’s not place our early parenthood moments so far behind us that we forget to be encouraging and supportive to the young mamas around us. Let’s avoid the judgmental faces and snippy comments.

Let’s remember that in this free country, a mother can take her brood of youngsters along with her wherever she would like– stores, restaurants, salons, the doctor’s office, church, etc. Granted, some places are better for children than others, but if you see a mother out in public with her children, alone, and you think that she would have been better off not to bring her kids with her, BELIEVE ME, she agrees with you. If she had another option, she would probably be using it. However, sometimes spouses aren’t around. Sometimes friends and family can’t help. Sometimes babysitters aren’t available or are too expensive. Sometimes mothers without help are just that…mothers without help.

And regardless of the circumstances, how can children really learn how to behave and act in public if they aren’t given the chance to, you know, be in public? They have to learn that sitting through a church service is important, and that movies don’t last 15 minutes, and there is a proper way to behave in a restaurant, and you can’t pick up and hold each and every little thing at Hobby Lobby.

Kids have to learn. Moms have to teach. Fellow moms need to encourage.

I make it a point, when I see another mama struggling with a child in public, to share a smile or short story about how “my kids have done the same thing,” even if they haven’t.

It’s the compassionate nice supportive right thing to do.

Recently, my husband and I learned that I am pregnant with our third (T-H-I-R-D….3rd!) girl. Yes, my poor husband is now largely outnumbered, and no amount of steroids will get his testosterone level to match the estrogen practically flowing through the air vents in our home. 

My husband and I were among the first in our friendship circle to have children. This was not ideal for a bunch of reasons.