I was woken up in the middle of the night by blood curdling screams. It was 4:38 a.m.—not really the middle of the night as I thought, but it was still dark and an unholy hour to be awake on a Sunday.
This was my new morning routine: for the fourth morning in a row, my two-year-old woke up wailing “MOMMA” at the top of his lungs like he was being murdered. No apparent reason, he wasn’t overly wet in his diaper, no new teeth coming through, no imminent fever—he was just up—and screaming.
As I haphazardly attempted to walk over to his room because I felt half-drunk from being up so early, I took him out of his crib and the tears turned to smiles instantly, like a crazy person.
About an hour later, my five-year-old joined her brother, it was barely 6 a.m. and both were running rampant like two little raccoons with rabies. As the morning progressed, eggs, juice boxes and Babybel cheeses were consumed at a thunderous pace, as was copious amounts of coffee for me.
By 8 a.m. the house—which was semi-clean the night before—looked like a train hit it. Since having kids, our home never is fully clean: always a popsicle stick stuck in some place, a lone book or teddy bear strewn about or a toy car hiding in the corner. I’ve learned to try to roll with it and attempt to clean daily, but it never stays that way with two children. As the morning weaned on into the afternoon, my husband was now aboard the morning crazy train, and we somehow all were able to get dressed and maneuver out of the house to a friend’s BBQ.
I was proud of myself—through my daily morning circus, the children were dressed, teeth brushed, fed and I even did a few loads of very needed laundry, threw in a Pilates class, I was showered and makeup was masking the dark bags under my eyes. So in other words, and in my head: I was kicking butt on a Sunday. I was Supermom! (Cue the music).
We jumped in the car and made our way to the party. Once there, we were greeted by friends and friends of friends. We made small talk, “How are you? How is life? How are the kids? ” And, as per usual the moms at the party say, “Oh great, so and so is GREAT! We are GREAT!”
In other words there was never a problem, never an issue—almost as if there wasn’t a care in the world. This is all while looking a bit too put together, almost on show. Then more conversations, “George is speaking five languages and is only four!” “Klara is doing advanced physics and is five!” Ok—I made that up , but you get the point: all is ideal and all the kids are even more amazing.
Now, these are friends we have known for a while and we know they also have kids who are similar ages as ours—and definitely know the inner workings. So why must everything be portrayed as hunky-dory, happy-happy and perfect?
I don’t know about you but sure, there are moments where motherhood feels dream-like and out-of-a-movie with sweet cuddles and conversations. But it’s far from perfect.
I don’t fully get why some moms have to mask the way mothering and raising young children really is. It makes me anxious, thinking, “Am I the only shit show?” or “Am I the only mom who sometimes gives her kids Kraft Mac & Cheese a bit too much, forgets to maybe brush their teeth in the morning before school—or lets them wear mismatched socks because I didn’t have time to do laundry?”
Am I maybe too honest?
Should I keep to myself that, at least weekly, I need to bleach my tub because my toddler poops in it, then screams out of fright as the floating feces wane their way to him?Or not complain my five-year-old is trying to emulate TikTok skincare tutorials… and it’s creeping me out? I personally feel more and more moms—and also online influencers—are showcasing this “perfect” aesthetic that nobody can live up to, but everyone wants, so it’s becoming this weird complex for all of us. It’s creating an expectation that no one can live up to unless they have professional nannies and daily household cleaning services.
Living in close proximity to New York City, I sometimes wonder if other moms have this type of help—or if they possess a different gene of energy and productivity that I didn’t inherit.
When my daughter has play dates I am always amazed at how organized and clean the houses are. Not a speck of dust or string cheese wrapper on the floor. I am always in awe of these women: do they have cleaning people always at bay, ready to clean at a moment’s notice when a child drops a piece of food?
Do they, themselves, clean 24/7 to keep this house so clean? Are there robots that clean? Can I hire one?
I, on the other hand, am lucky if my house stays 20 percent clean some of the time. The minute I Windex a little handprint from a glass window, another one appears like magic two seconds later. There doesn’t seem to be enough time—if ever—to always have my house in order. I know it’s just another phase in the motherhood experience, nothing truly stays the same, and is always temporary—the good, the bad and the very messy.
Of course, I would love it if my house stayed maybe a little orderly for more than an hour. So how do they do it? Personally, I don’t think they do keep it that way, I think under all that organization, the smiles and everything being, “PERFECT”— it just isn’t.
So no matter how they portray a sense of perfection—I really do think there is always just this hot-mess-express somewhere underneath, hidden out of sight. Maybe it’s not always visible to everyone, but it’s there.
I guess I just prefer not to hide mine, I like to put it all out in the open, so maybe another mom out there will say, “Wow, that’s me. I guess I’m a good mom, even though my home is a mess.” As mothers, we’re all too hard on ourselves—and having a realistic perspective of what a toddler-and-baby-run home looks like can make us feel far less alone.
Plus, I am maybe the worst liar ever. So when another mom asks, “How are you?” you can tell right away that I’m tired AF and kinda all over the place and I will most likely tell you about how my toddler’s recent tantrums, or how my daughter said ‘F*ck’ the other day. You definitely won’t hear me say, “I’m great”—unless I truly am.
So messy momma’s wherever you are and in whatever capacity you may be, I see you—even through those popsicle-stick free homes and coiffed hair—and I enjoy you anyway. And hey, if you don’t want to clean up the breakfast disaster before I come over, I’ll still be impressed with you and think you’re an awesome mom.
