Updated: March 2, 2021
Originally Published: Oct. 1, 2015
“I can’t believe it! How cringeworthy!” I overheard my 9-year-old, Jake, exclaim to his 6-year-old twin brothers, Max and Leo.
“What’s cringeworthy?” I asked, entering our cluttered playroom, where the boys were immersed in their Lego creations.
“This!” Jake waved his hands dramatically, indicating the chaos around him. “This playroom is filled with baby stuff!” Max and Leo nodded vigorously in agreement. “These drawings are so lame! Plus, they’re just stuck to the walls with tape,” Jake scoffed, pointing to the colorful masterpieces he and his brothers had crafted over the years at home and school.
I blinked and stepped back to take in the full view. The walls were adorned with hand-painted soldiers, watercolor gingerbread men from Christmas, and heart-shaped notes proclaiming “All the Reasons We Love Mommy” from Valentine’s Day. There were also playful leprechaun puppets made from brown paper bags and cheerful daisies featuring the smiling faces of my twins attached to green pipe cleaner stems. A life-sized outline of Jake from when he was just four and the “All About Me” posters created when they started kindergarten filled the space.
Jake has definitely seen how other moms curate their children’s playrooms. Some possess the creativity, energy, and motivation to frame their kids’ artwork, design charming shadow boxes, and create beautiful gallery walls for their little ones’ masterpieces.
When our playroom first came together, I was barely managing myself. My husband and I had just moved into our new home with our 3-year-old and 5-day-old twins while I was still recovering from a C-section. My in-laws unpacked everything, organized the kitchen, and arranged the furniture while I sat, holding or feeding one baby or the other. During that time, I simply didn’t have the energy to think about décor; my priority was caring for my children and minimizing the tears—both theirs and mine.
For three exhausting years, my husband and I were fully immersed in parenthood. I considered it a successful day if I managed to squeeze in some playtime while getting all the kids fed, changed, and tucked in for naps or bedtime. Did I ever look around our home, compare it with those of other families, and notice how organized and stylish their spaces were? Absolutely. But instead of trying to summon my inner Martha Stewart, I’d pour myself a glass of wine, watch some light TV with my husband, and hit the pillow by 10 p.m. to avoid feeling like a zombie the next morning.
Consequently, our home remained sparsely decorated and unpainted, except for one room: the playroom. The chaotic, slapdash, and somewhat embarrassing playroom. I found joy in every scrap of my kids’ creativity, even if it was just some paint splashes on a torn piece of paper. I pulled out the Scotch tape and found a blank spot on the wall to showcase their artwork. These efforts, though simple and unrefined, were all I could manage at that time.
Now that my children are 9, 6, and 6, a lot has changed. While the interior of our home still lacks paint, there are many more decorative elements than before. Since finishing the basement, the kids don’t use the playroom as often, but I still tape their school artwork to its walls.
As I squinted at the playroom, trying to see it through the eyes of my kids—who were embarrassed by it—I realized I was also witnessing the kind of mother I am: imperfect, messy, and exhausted. I’m the mother who kisses boo-boos, reads bedtime stories, pushes swings, attends baseball games, calms worries, helps with homework, prepares meals, hosts playdates, and plans birthday parties. Instead of exhausting myself to make my home look like something from a design magazine, I choose to replenish my energy after fulfilling my kids’ needs, grabbing the Scotch tape to ensure they know I’m proud of what they create.
I took a deep breath and began peeling the edges of a rainbow fish off the wall. I had no idea how long it would take to transform this space into something less embarrassing or even if I would be able to tackle the task. As the fish dangled awkwardly, one sequined eye cocked at me, I thought, This might hurt me more than it hurts you.
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In summary, while the chaos of motherhood can sometimes feel overwhelming, it’s essential to embrace the beautiful mess that comes with it. Every piece of art, no matter how imperfect, tells a story of love and effort that deserves to be celebrated.