Today was a Monday.
Nothing particularly special about it. Nothing bad happened. Just a normal Monday in our house.
I woke up, made breakfast, homeschooled the boys, cleaned up breakfast (well, the dishes at least), played with my children, nursed a baby, changed diapers, washed clothes, washed dishes, and started figuring out what we were going to do for dinner.
You know, the usual.
Well, somewhere in the middle of all that, plans changed.
My husband, who is technically one of the boys’ soccer coaches, was supposed to handle soccer this evening. Unfortunately, his job had other plans, which meant Mama was now taking over coaching duties.
Which is fine by me. Who doesn’t love an opportunity to be bossy toward a bunch of little kids? 😂
Anyway, that meant dinner needed to be ready when we got home.
Enter the crockpot.
(And before anybody judges the picture, trust the process. I know it looks questionable right now, but I promise it’ll taste amazing. 😂)
My aunt was coming over to stay with the younger two while they napped, so I figured I should probably straighten up the house a little before she arrived.
Not because she would care, but because I wanted her to be comfortable.
And that’s when I started looking around.
Laundry piled up beside the washing machine. Random things scattered across the dining room table. Schoolbooks, pencils, and everything else imaginable covering our homeschool table.
And I thought to myself, Good grief. Why is my house so dirty?
Then I started thinking about everything I had done that morning.
And I had to laugh.
Because what exactly did I expect?
I had spent the morning feeding children, teaching children, playing with children, cleaning up after children, and taking care of a baby.
And somehow I was standing there wondering why my house wasn’t spotless.
Ma’am.
There are six people living in this house. Four of them are little boys.
This is not a museum. If anything, it’s closer to a playground that happens to have a kitchen and a washing machine.
And apparently, I’m the cook, teacher, janitor, referee, nurse, and occasionally the soccer coach.
All before dinner.
I think sometimes we put these unrealistic expectations on ourselves without even realizing it.
We want our children to have clean clothes, homemade meals, a good education, plenty of attention, and a home where they feel loved.
But we also want the laundry folded, the dishes washed, the floors swept, the toys put away, and every surface cleared.
Preferably all at the same time.
And preferably without anyone touching anything once we’ve cleaned it.
Which, if you have children, you know is a hilarious expectation.
I can clean the dining room table, turn around to put something away, and come back to find three water bottles, a toy car, half a cracker, and something that I’m not entirely sure belongs to us.
Where did it come from?
Who put it there?
Why is it sticky?
Questions I may never have answers to.
And yet, I still love having a clean house.
I love when everything is put away. I love walking into the kitchen and seeing clear countertops. I love when the laundry is folded and the floors are clean.
But I also love sitting down and playing with my children.
I love watching them learn something new.
I love hearing them laugh together, even if that laughter is usually followed by somebody crying because somebody else took something that apparently belonged to them.
I love being home with them.
And sometimes, those things mean the laundry sits a little longer.
Sometimes the dishes don’t get washed immediately.
Sometimes the dining room table looks like we’ve hosted a small gathering of people who have absolutely no intention of cleaning up after themselves.
Which, technically, we have.
And that’s okay.
Because here’s what I realized today.
I wasn’t looking at a house that hadn’t been cared for. I was looking at a house full of people who had been cared for.
My children had been fed. They had been educated. They had been played with. They had been loved.
Clothes had been washed. Dinner was cooking. Life was happening.
And somehow, I was still measuring the success of my morning by how clean my house looked.
Why do we do that?
Why is it so easy to recognize everything we haven’t done and so difficult to appreciate everything we have?
I don’t know.
But I do know that I am thankful for this life.
I enjoy being home with my children. I enjoy homeschooling them. I enjoy cooking for my family and taking care of our home.
Do I enjoy every single diaper change or load of laundry?
Let’s not get carried away. 😂
But I love the life that comes with them.
And I think that’s an important distinction.
I can love my life and still want my house clean.
I can be thankful for my children and still wonder how four little humans can create so much laundry.
I can enjoy homeschooling and still wish our school supplies would magically find their way back into their baskets.
Those things can all be true.
And one day, I know things will look different.
The toys won’t be scattered across the floor. The homeschool books will eventually be put away. The little clothes will turn into big clothes, and eventually, there won’t be quite so many people making messes in my kitchen every day.
And I imagine I’ll miss some of this.
Maybe not the laundry. I’m fairly confident I won’t miss that. 😂
But I’ll miss the little voices. The laughter. The constant questions. The little feet running through the house.
So, no, my house isn’t picture-perfect.
It’s lived in.
It’s a little messy. A little loud. Occasionally chaotic.
But it’s also full of laughter, learning, love, and a whole lot of little-boy energy.
And today wasn’t some extraordinary day.
It was just a Monday.
Breakfast was made. Schoolwork was done. Laundry was washed. Dinner was cooking. Plans changed, and we adjusted.
And somewhere in the middle of it all, I was reminded that a house doesn’t have to look like a museum to be a good home.
Thank goodness, because mine wouldn’t qualify anyway.
It’s much closer to a playground.
And quite frankly, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
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