For years I would spend a few minutes every night, cleaning up after my kids. I would hate to calculate just how many hours of my life have been spent picking up toys. A heck of a lot.
I love a clean house. I do. It’s the one thing in my life that I feel like I have complete control over. If my environment is organized, life is just, better.
I love them. So much. They’re amazing little humans.
But they’re messy.
And they don’t care. I don’t get it. Clearly they are lacking in the clean gene department.
I don’t know how many times I have had the same conversation with them.
Me: “How can you stand it? You can’t even walk in here.”
Kids: “Yes we can! We just play hopscotch around the toys.”
One night my husband found me on my hands and knees, color coordinating the Lego. Did I mention I like things organized?
I was exhausted. Which is a common state for me.
“Why don’t you just shut the door?” He asked.
I stared up at him. It’s possible it was more of a glare. I had been expecting him to join me on the floor, sifting through the mountain of Lego. Instead he offered me those seven words.
Apparently It was all I needed.
I got up and closed the door.
These days everybody is talking about how self-care is so important when you’re a parent. And it is. It’s so easy to lose yourself in taking care of everyone else. But self-care? Yeah, it’s not so easy. It takes time, and energy and asking for help.
Self care is hiding a stash of chocolate bars and keeping them all for yourself.
Self care is turning on Netflix for the kids so you can drink your coffee. Hot.
Self care is putting the kids to bed early and cuddling with hubby on the couch.
Self care is closing a door.
So now? The kids clean the play room once a week. Not me. Them.
The other 95% of the time? It looks like this. And that’s okay.
Because this shut door in my life? Is one that I can live with.