Can we talk about the house for a second? You know, the one we supposedly live in? Because at this point, I’m not sure if I’m parenting or moonlighting as a full-time janitor. Every single room has been touched—no, destroyed—by tiny humans who operate like adorable tornadoes in Crocs.
I swear, I clean a room and by the time I get to the next one, the first room has somehow exploded. Again. It defies logic, physics, and basic human decency. There are Cheerio dust trails leading from the kitchen to the living room. Toy dinosaurs have colonized the hallway. There are stickers. Everywhere. And I’m pretty sure I stepped on a granola bar that was partially eaten, partially stomped into the carpet.
Don’t even get me started on laundry. How do two kids produce enough dirty clothes to fill a commercial-grade washer every other day? Are they changing outfits hourly? I think my toddler may be running a side hustle as a fashion influencer. And socks? Mysteriously vanish. I have a drawer filled with sock orphans that haunt me daily.
The kitchen looks like a food fight broke out hourly. There’s yogurt on the fridge handle. Peanut butter fingerprints on the wall. A cup of milk I didn’t even know existed is fermenting behind the toaster. My floor has become a graveyard of Goldfish crackers and broken dreams.
And just when I think I’ve achieved a moment of tidiness—that brief, shining, 90-second miracle when the couch cushions are in place and the Lego land mines have been cleared—someone spills a juice box, pees their pants, or decides now is the perfect time to start a glitter project.
Sometimes I fantasize about hiring a cleaning service, but I’m pretty sure they’d take one look and refer me to a disaster relief agency. I’m not cleaning for sparkle and shine; I’m cleaning for survival. For the ability to find my phone charger or locate a spoon without entering a state of panic.
To my fellow parents: I see you. I salute you. I know the rage of stepping on a Lego barefoot and the crushing defeat of cleaning a room only for it to be re-demolished moments later. We’re not alone. And even if the house never stays clean for long, at least it’s full of life, laughter, and sticky handprints.
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go rescue a Barbie from the toilet. Again.