It doesn’t matter where you look in my house. There are no Pinterest-worthy spaces. Trash is everywhere besides the garbage bin because it is too full to put anything else in there. The sink has three days of dishes inside which has now begun to smell. You can spot half-filled sippy cups underneath the couch. The shoe basket is empty because all the shoes are beside it. The list can go on and on with everything that is wrong with my house. Except, fuck that. I am so frustrated with feeling guilt and shame because my house isn’t spotless
Moms, we deserve better than that.
So, no. I will not put myself down because of the chaos inside my home. Want to know what my family and I have been doing for the past couple of days besides cleaning? Living. And, three years ago, I did not want to live. I was stuck underneath a fort of blankets, scared of the world. I woke up every single morning crying because I was alive. Because living meant getting off my bed and doing things. And I was so fucking tired. Exhausted to the depths of my soul. It was a burden to breathe. The reality of death was so tempting. Yet, I was too damn tired to do anything about it.
My house is messy.
And that is a testimony to the fact that I am living. The mud-stained bathtub celebrates the memories made at the lake. The dirty dishes exploding onto the counter proclaim that I am cooking and providing nourishment for my family. And those paint stains on the kitchen table mark creative exploration. The built-up toothpaste in the bathroom sink shows I care about their health. I will not look around my house and see the ugly. Society will not shame my home or me because I am too busy making memories instead of cleaning.