But it would be the good kind of messy. The kind of messy that meant a kitchen table covered in newspaper and homemade play-doh. The kind of messy that meant pulling out the infamous Arts & Crafts bins from the front closet and emptying their contents all over the hallway floor.
Messy by way of paper mache projects in the dining room, turning one of my dad's old work shirts into a painting smock, dying uncooked macaroni noodles and stringing them into jewelry, countdown chains and Christmas tree garland.
The best kind of messy. Memory-making messy.
I want my boys to grow up with the same childhood. I want them to look back on their early years and remember the three of us laying on the kitchen floor, splattered with paint, giggling like banshees when Sheepie came over to lick their paint-streaked toes.
I want my boys to get their hands dirty and have fun doing so. I don't want my Type-A tendencies to keep them from squishing play-doh between their tiny fingers and using those same fingers to smoosh paint across the giant easel.
I want the sticky floors, the fingerprint laden doors. I want to give that box of Magic Erasers beneath the kitchen sink the workout they deserve.
I want to be the Messy Mom.
The kind of messy Mom who lets her kids paint pumpkins on the kitchen floor. And their toes. And a knee. And almost their little brother.