I’ve been thinking, writing, and praying about some hard things lately, so it felt like a break was needed on the blog. Found the writing in my journal from not long ago (a venting piece written a bit tongue in cheek) and then this fun pic of our kids at Shedd Aquarium last fall-minus Kelly đŚÂ  Â
When my children were little and I would find sticky spots of who-knew-what under high chairs and on doors and âŚeverywhere, I remember thinking that once they got to a certain age, I would need to simply hose down the entire house.
The logic behind this was that, at that âcertain age,â my children would be cleaner, neater, tidier.
Um, when is that stage?
Theyâre all in double-digits now, and I still feel like dirt and sticky substances literally drip from their fingertips and feet. I can clean a kitchen countertop so squeaky I would be fine eating right off it, and two hours later I come back and it looks as if a family of small animals has been living on it for several weeks.
Theyâve grown more autonomous, which means they can do things like fix meals for themselves, but it also means that ketchup, flour, hot dog âjuice,â bits of banana, etc.! can be slopped across the floor, in the fridge, under the microwave, behind the sinkâŚ
And since they eat all the time and anywhere, letâs add âin the couch and on the rug and on the windowsillsâŚâ
HOW?
If they are capable of fixing the food, of feeding themselves, are they not also capable of seeing the mess it creates?
And how, honestly, does a person make that much mess simply pouring a bowl of cereal? How is that even possible?
My inner âmartyr momâ tells me they see at least some of the messes they create, but they assume, maybe even unconsciously, I will clean it up.
But I donât think âseeing itâ is the entirety of the problem. I am discovering there is a great chasmâGrand Canyon-sizedâbetween my idea of âcleanâ and theirs.
âWipe the countertops, please,â I ask.
When they are finished, it looks to me no different than when they started, but when I bring the offending child in to look, and I point at the offensive countertop, he or she responds, âWhat? I cleaned it.â
THAT is not clean!
Surely this will get better, right? I have this terrible image of my children, in their 20s, still blissfully unaware of the messes that follow them everywhere they go. This makes me want to create some giant plastic bubble suits into which I can zip them, with a little slot for me to pass food inside. All the slop will be with them in the suits and when they get disgusted enough with it (if they even notice it), I could send them outside to unzip and shake and hose down.
At times the state of our house gets to the point that I see nothing but the dirt, and every crumb-pile and crusty plate and spill in our house seems as if itâs jumping up and down, shouting, âLook at me! Look at me!â Thatâs when I go on a little rampage, pointing out all the gunk to whichever of my kids happens to be around. But even though I think the evidence of their slovenliness is quite overwhelming, all they do is look at me with that expression on their faces that tells me they think Iâm losing it and probably need to see a doctor.
I wonder if they will ever notice or if I will be cleaning up after them when they visit me in their 30s. And usually at this point in my thinking, I indulge in a little fantasizing about a clean house, a tidy house, with everything arranged just so, staying just so.
Staying quiet.
With my introvert self being too quiet in the middle of it.
And I find I am grateful for my house being exactly the way it is.
Dirt and all.
Jen Underwood 