Secret Shame

 

Sunshine pouring down on my face, I can feel the warmth as my eyes slowly awaken. I hear birds chirping outside my window as I sprawl out in bed, enveloped in clouds of down blanket. I glance at my phone, “8 am” I say, as I roll over and fall back into the sweet abyss of dreamland.  Well, a girl can dream…right?

The days of setting my alarm and hitting the snooze button while catching some extra sleep are long gone. These days, I don’t even need an alarm; my kids are my alarm. It’s not out of the ordinary to wake up to a foot in the face or the ear-piercing shriek of “Mama!” These kids have no snooze button, so neither do I.

Our morning consists of battle of the breakfasts. Will avocado toast take the lead today, or will it be lucky charms for the fourth day in a row?

 “Alexa, play we don’t talk about Bruno.” “Alexa, play we don’t talk about Bruno again.” “Seven-foot frame, rats along his back” I sing to myself as I chase a one-year-old and a four-year-old around the house, begging them to put their shoes over their mismatched socks. We’ve got ten minutes to get to swim lessons. Have you ever tried to rush 3 boys out the door?  It’s comparable to herding sheep.

Back from swim and it’s time for lunch. “Peanut butter and jelly!” My four-year-old demands. Peanut butter, check. Jelly, check. Bread…ah, that’s what I forgot to get yesterday!  Rice cake with peanut butter and jelly it is…the rice cake makes it healthy, right?

“Levi, get out of the dog’s water bowl!”  Why did I splurge on that expensive water table, again? Cue an independent toddler who refuses to accept help…for anything.

 Wait, mom cleaned the playroom? No no no, this simply will not do. Time to dump any and all toys onto the floor, challenge accepted. Clean, dump, repeat.

 After an exhausting day, bedtime finally awaits. Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus was our book of choice tonight…I think I can recite it by memory at this point. “Water mommy, water.” The stalling tactic of the night. Alas, the water was not cold enough, back to the kitchen I go. Time for lights out. Levi to my left, Maverick to my right.

Once snoring ensues and I confirm that both boys are asleep, I slide myself out of bed and tiptoe across the old wood floorboards. I begin to canvass the destruction that my children so lovingly left behind; blocks are scattered across the kitchen floor while action figures line the countertops. Couch cushions are strategically placed upon the floor, covered in what looks a makeshift fort. Finally, I reach the eye of the storm…the playroom. This room was once a dining room. Now, it’s a child’s play land. It’s a climbing zone; an adventure land. The walls are decorated with children’s artwork and there are shelves upon shelves of every toy imaginable. Two swings can be seen hanging in the entryway next to a plastic slide and a wooden climbing triangle; children clearly live here. 

When I see all these beautiful homes on social media, I think to myself, “but where do the children live?” Where do the children really live? I would love for my home to look like those in magazines; white couches paired with plush rugs, decorative plants scattered around the house, blankets strategically placed on the upholstery, and miscellaneous décor to tie it all together. But then…reality kicks in. My dream of having a white couch has been replaced with a dark blue couch and our area rug is washable...because, kids. Our blankets are usually strategically thrown on the floor or covering a sleeping toddler who passed out on the couch after refusing a nap all day. Our singular house plant lives on the highest, most sturdy shelf in our living room, and most days our décor doubles as children’s play toys. You know what, though... I’m ok with my house not looking like a magazine. I have learned to embrace practicality rather than aesthetics.  At the end of the day, I want my home to look like my children live here to; I want my home to feel like my children’s home. 

In our family, we have a running joke about each family’s “secret shame” and the lengths that people will go to in order to hide their secret shame. Most days, if you were to stop by unannounced, our secret shame would be on full display. If you walked in the front door, you would see my husband chaotically working from home on the couch, because our office has become a makeshift laundry room for laundry that never actually gets folded. The kitchen table would be housing half eaten bowls of soggy cereal still marinating from breakfast, and the bathroom would be draped in damp towels, dirty clothes, and a mild scent of stale pee (why can’t boys ever learn to aim IN the toilet?!) There are days I wish I had no secret shame to hide. There are days I wish our house was pristine. There are days I wish I had a magazine worthy home.

But, there are days when I am too busy making memories with my children to even be bothered with the mess. Days when we spend all day playing in the backyard. Days when we wake up early to go biking on the trails. Days when we run from soccer, to swimming, and back to soccer again.

There are nights where the children are tucked in bed and I should be cleaning. Cleaning, organizing, and folding. But instead, I stay cuddled up next to my children. I lay in bed feeling their bodies relax by the minute, their little arms enveloping my neck; their heads finding comfort in the nook between my arm and my chest. I listen to their shallow breaths and the little squeaks their noses make while they sleep. I study their faces as they sleep; my chubby cheeked babies have somehow morphed into little boys seemingly overnight. These days feel long and tedious and redundant, but the years are fleeting; the biggest paradox of life.

I know there will come a day when I miss the early wake ups. There will be a day when I am no longer awoken by an elbow, a slobbery open mouth kiss, or a toddler babbling in my ear. One day, there will be no toys furnishing our house and our dining room will simply be just a dining room. While most days I yearn for silence, I know there will come a time when the silence will be a solemn reminder of how grown and independent my children have become. So, for now, I will bask in the chaos. I will revel in the mess. I will embrace our secret shame, because this messy, chaotic, and unconventional home is proof that our children really live here.