There’s crayon all over my white sofa table. And apparently, on my coffee table. Oh, and marker on the couch, and it won’t come out.
In the family room, you’ll see an unidentifiable stain I just found on the family room sofa in the spot where Saoirse usually sits. Not quite sure how that happened.
My children are with me all day. Which means that this morning, I have pulled sheets out of the dryer only to discover that I also washed one stuffed animal, three plastic hair clips and a Carter’s price tag. I have had to roll one of those lint brush things over Quinn, then just give up and change her clothes anyway, because her newfound penchant for rolling around on Luca makes for some furry baby clothes. Later, I was at the grocery store, putting some produce into a reusable bag, only to pull out a pair of SK’s flip-flops in front of a dumbfounded (and slightly grossed-out) cashier.
I’ve discovered chalk dust on dining room chairs, melted crayon in my baby’s nose, my favorite sandals in a toy bin in the playroom. Just today. It’s only 1 p.m.
I’m not a negligent mother. I just have kids. I have kids who chase each other around the kitchen island while I’m cooking, kids who throw impromptu dance parties with the dog, girls who think the most fun in the world is finding a bag, a basket, a drawer, and investigating its contents, which usually results in those items being thrown wildly around the room.
I tidy up. A lot. And sometimes, like now, I throw my hands up in surrender and go cower in the corner to dream of the day when I will own furniture that is not personally decorated by a 3-year-old, a house without streaks of red (paint? plastic?) on the white door jambs, a carpet lacking tell-tale spots where I once scrubbed out spit-up.
This is where we are. This is who I am. And right now, I laugh while my kids play and invest in a lot of upholstery cleaner.
“Mom?” Saoirse just asked. “What’s that smell?” I don’t know, love. I’m afraid to find out.