I’ve always had a bit of a messy streak. It’s a trait I’ve carried with me, often feeling a sense of embarrassment because, let’s be honest, a woman being disorganized seems to draw more judgment than it does for men. Back in college, no one batted an eye at guys who lived in chaos, with clothes strewn about and beds unmade. A visit? Just shuffle aside the mountain of pizza boxes and take a seat. For guys, a messy room might earn a casual “Dude, that’s gross,” but for a girl, it raised eyebrows and whispers of “Maybe she’s not okay.”
Traditionally, women are seen as the custodians of the home, expected to craft inviting environments where friends can kick off their shoes and enjoy a warm cup of tea. Somehow, I missed that lesson in womanhood. My personal space often resembled a tornado aftermath, with clean and dirty clothes battling for dominance on the floor. When I lived alone, I’d let dishes linger in the sink for days, dusting only when it became an emergency. When guests came over, I would scramble to turn my space into a semblance of cleanliness, washing laundry, scrubbing down surfaces, and pretending to be someone entirely different. I wanted to be tidy, but the motivation to clean just wasn’t there.
And then came kids. If you think managing a single-person space is a challenge, try keeping a house with four people in it—especially when two of those people are like miniature natural disasters. Every step they take seems to generate a whirlwind of chaos: sand from their shoes gets flung everywhere, clothes are stripped and dropped en route to the bath, and food somehow finds its way into the most unexpected nooks. The constant mountain of laundry and endless pile of dirty dishes feel like a relentless reminder of my past struggles with mess.
But here’s the silver lining: I’ve improved! In my single days, I would rate myself a solid 4 on a 1 to 10 tidiness scale. Now, as a mom, I’m still a 4 on the Mom Tidiness Scale—but it’s a different kind of 4. I’ve learned that letting the dishes pile up only makes things worse, so I tackle them promptly. I clean out bags as soon as they come home, knowing that tomorrow will be more challenging if I don’t. My laundry management has leveled up, and I often think that if I had put this effort into my single life, my home would have been sparkling.
I still find myself exhausted by the end of the day, collapsing on the couch while the ultra-organized moms are busy picking up tiny scraps of paper from their crafting sessions. But at least I’m no longer living in filth. I hope that as my kids grow up and leave home, this newfound tidiness will stick with me. Who knows? I might end up being the tidiest resident in the nursing home!
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In conclusion, while I may not be the neatest mom on the block, I’m evolving and learning to manage the chaos. Who says you can’t improve, even in the face of motherhood’s mess?