I haven't slept through the night since June of 2012. That's approximately five hundred and sixty nights for anyone keeping track and I'm exhausted just thinking about it.
I haven't been caught up on laundry since July of 2010. That's approximately 1,234 days of scrambling to find a pair of clean underwear and countless repeated spin cycles. In fact, if I'm being honest, there are at least two full hampers of partially folded clean clothes in our house on any given day at any given time. Most of the time those clothes never make it to their final drawer destination as they are picked through for what's needed until they're replaced with the dirty ones.
There's a spot in my fridge, in one of those trays on the side door, that's been caked over with a fine layer of Stick for who knows how long. I like to pretend that one day I'll open up those doors and the Stick will have just vanished on its own.
My pantry is a veritable disaster, a graveyard of where canned goods go to die. Truly, it's almost hazardous to your health, as one must dodge various falling objects when opening the accordion door. Nothing like a can of Rotel to the big toe to wake you up on a Monday morning.
Colonies of dust bunnies, lone toddler socks and renegade sippy cups can almost always be found underneath at least one of the couches in our house. Much like the fridge, I hope that one day this stuff will just disappear.
On average I cook dinner three to four nights per week. The other nights it's a fend for yourself free-for-all which really means that the kids and I eat peanut butter and jelly sandwiches or Breakfast For Dinner while my husband is left to play Chopped with whatever he can find in the kitchen. Don't feel bad for him though, he's a pretty resourceful guy.
The floor of my SUV is blanketed with a myriad of empty Starbucks bags, cake pop sticks, probable matches to the socks located underneath our couches, crunched up pretzel sticks and whatever else I tend to hand back to my youngest during one of his infamous "I'm Tired of Being In The Car" fits he pitches. I like to tell myself that all of this will come in handy one day should we find ourselves stranded and alone somewhere. Kind of like Survivor, Mom-mobile style.
I have a horrible habit of making piles of things. Ask my husband and he'll tell you it's probably one of my most frustrating and annoying qualities second to leaving tiny bits of food crusted to the sponge that sits in our kitchen sink. Piles of medical bills on kitchen counters, library books, coupon clippings and grocery store receipts. Piles of half-folded laundry, magazines and to-do lists clutter the dresser in our bedroom. Piles, piles, everywhere but I can tell you with my eyes closed just what's in every single one of those piles. So there.
More often than not, the boys' playroom is left as-is and what I mean by this is that it looks as if we've been robbed by a fleet of toy-loving Oompa Loompas. I like to tell myself that it's only going to be destroyed the very next day so cleaning and organizing it is just a waste of whatever meager time to myself I manage to find at the end of the day. Who knows, maybe the mess is off-putting to any intruder who may be thinking of breaking and entering.
For every fancy meal cooked, craft DIY'd and impeccable outfit planned, there's three meals that look like my toddler prepared them, two Pinterest craft fails and numerous days (and evenings) spent in black leggings and my husband's flannel shirts.
I'm not Super Mom and I can't do it all no matter how hard I try. What's more is that I'm okay with that and proud of my sub-par Super Mom status. There isn't a day that goes by that we don't laugh, we don't play, we don't create and imagine in this house.
If the wall of my house could talk, they would speak of 2pm dance parties, skyscrapers built from canned goods and shoe boxes, story time with a side of snuggles, food fights, tickle-fests and so much more. They'd tell tales of struggle, frustrations and flared tempers but more importantly, they would share the "I'm Sorry's" and limitless hugs and kisses that quickly follow.
If the walls of my house could talk they would tell you that above all else, love abounds.And I'm more than okay with that.