My Bedroom is a Mess

I’m a 34-year-old grown woman and a mother of two. I should be making my bed each morning. But alas, I am no Admiral William H McRaven (I only know who that guy is because my dad made me watch his speech).

I may be able to tackle the ‘big things’ in life, (like my toddler’s emotional torment over getting a dribble of milk on his chin) better if I started by getting the small things right, but my cup runneth over, so the small things are out the window.

My bedroom smells better than my uni halls but it is the exact same level of mess. My husband and I share a room in the attic. This seemed the most selfless and sensible option when our second son came along.

They get to be on the same floor as each other… and the bathroom. What a luxury. Our toddler has the master bedroom, and I couldn’t be more jealous. But… making him scale his way down those skinny stairs gives me heart palpatations, so the master bedroom it is. Popping the baby up there was out of the question. It’s dark and cold, and an attic.

This means, of course, that we are on a different floor to our boys. So… before anyone says that I’m setting a bad example for my kids… they never go in there. It’s guarded by a superb stairgate. They sometimes come in for a midnight cuddle… but hazaa! They can’t see anything.

The fact that our room is up two flights of stairs means that it’s highly unlikely that I’m going to carry the hoover (with two small boys hanging off of me) all the way up on a regular basis. If I take up a glass of water… it never comes back down. We have piles of laundry dotted around the place. I can barely see myself in our dust coated mirror. My son’s old cot is in parts, propped against the wall. You get the picture.

And I am OK with it.

I really am.

I know a lot of you will be squirming at the thought, and that’s OK too. You don’t ever have to sleep in my bedroom… but if you do happen to come to stay, I will blitz it for you. It will be sparkling.

For context, before we had children, our entire house was a hot mess. And now, bar our bedroom, I hoover about 6 times a day. I tidy the play areas constantly. My husband and I wash dishes, clean surfaces, wash clothes, fold, hang, dust, scrub, polish, mop… every day. It’s relentless and boring, but we make ourselves/I make us do it because it’s important.

When we had our first baby, we didn’t find the cleaning too arduous, but now with our second baby, we also have a crumb-leaving, tiny-toy-bits-dropping, wonderfully grubby toddler darting around leaving choking hazards in his wake.

I’ve also got to the point in my motherhood, where I need a clear, clean space to feel good and ready for the day.

If we ever fall behind on the cleaning, it weighs down on me and I feel cross with everyone. And the baby tries to eat many things he shouldn’t, like soil from the toddler’s balance bike wheels, or dice, or a small lion.

I want them to have clean, fresh smelling pyjamas to put on and to climb into a clean, fresh smelling bed. I want them to have space to be creative and play, without clutter at their feet. I want them to have freedom in their home, without having to block them from dirty or messy spaces. So, we tidy and clean.

But.

My room is my messy sanctuary.

I do not care.

Let the clothes pile high and the empty glasses gather.

Let me climb beneath my unmade bed and breathe.

I have no guilt. It’s just me and my husband. And we relish in the fact that we don’t have to do it.

It will get done… every now and then, but it will always be the last thing on the list. And because of who I am, I feel like it’s an either or. Either clean my bedroom or have a dance party in the nursery with my boys – I’ll take the dance party every time.

Published by RaisingBoys

I’m Kelly. I’m 34 and I am a primary school teacher (when I’m not mumming). I live in a thin, tall house with my thinnish, quite tall husband and two beautiful boys. I love writing, and am trying to keep it up so I can keep a piece of me.

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