When we were looking for a new house two years ago, I was very much hoping we’d find one with a proper mud room area. We were living in a typical 1960s-era split level, so when we entered the house, we walked right into our kitchen/dining area. There was no convenient place to store the uniform shoes/jackets/backpacks the kids used every day, and it’s embarrassing to say that we needed a spot. We’re all droppers: there’s not a natural neat-nick in this family, though we keep trying to pretend that gosh no, there are no clothes/shoes/bags all over the floor behind that closed door. We are IMMACULATE.
(Remember this in a few sentences, okay?)
When we saw this house, then–the one we’re living in now–I was super excited to discover that there was, in fact, a blessed, glorious, mud room. Actually, it wasn’t so much a room as a built-in shelving unit shoved against the wall opposite the garage door, but to me, it was paradise. The first thing I did after we moved in was buy bins for the storage compartments. We still haven’t hung curtains in our bedroom, but dagnabit, those bins were fantastic. I was going to be organized. I was going to be NEAT.
But. This family is not neat. I am not consistently neat, never have been. But we try to be neat, and then the next morning we show our true colors after one or two kids tries to find a pair of shoes as they’re running out the door to school and before I know it the Mud Room Monster has vomited its mess all over my house.
A friend saw a couple of Instagram pictures I posted the other day and made a nice comment about how clean my house is. No, no, friend. Any picture like that just happens to be the one with the make-up on, the one that only leaves the house when the hair is flat-ironed and the clothes are pretty and the outfit is coordinated. This? This right here? This picture is the equivalent of what I look like when I first get out of bed in the morning. This is real life. It’s me in my pajamas before I’ve thrown a coat over them to take the kids to school. It’s embarrassing and it’s us and it is the absolute perfect example of what it’s like inside my brain right now (if you look directly at it you’ll burn your retinas). You can take “dropper” out of the split level house, but you can’t take the dropper out of the girl, I suppose.In my defense, most of those shoes are the kids’. I just don’t understand why they refuse to pick up after themselves, you know?