More Confessions of a Terrible Stay-at-Home Mom
in Giggles on January 5, 2022
I started this series several years ago. It was cathartic for me to confess some of my most epic parenting fails to unseen and unknown readers. Somehow the silent judgment from strangers was comforting. Yes, I’m probably a head case most shrinks would love to study—but this is just one reason for baring my soul.
I had also hoped that other parents out there might read about my family and their antics and find some solace. Some of you were thrilled and thankful that another person was out there who didn’t have their entire act together, while others straight up laughed at my misfortunes, and still others flaunted their superiority over my failings.
All of the responses were justified and welcomed.
I recently (September, 2021) released a new book called Why Some Animals Eat Their Young: A Survivors Guide to Motherhood. Nestled within its pages is a virtual cornucopia of parenting stories that will rival both America’s Funniest Home Videos and Ripley’s Believe It or Not. Get your copy here.
In my book, I walk you through life with my husband and three itty-bitty ones, family vacations, in-laws, and home remodeling. The book ends with the kiddos somewhere in the vicinity of their middle school years. If only that were the final stop of the Crazy Train.
It most certainly is not.
My kids are now officially adults. That seems really weird to type out. All three of them are over 18. They all live together in the same house so they can all pursue their respective educational choices, in a little college town about 45 minutes from me.
They can smoke (hopefully not), they can get tattoos (Elliott did … eye roll), they can buy lottery tickets (nothing has hit), and they can even vote. Yet somehow through all these “adulting” events, there is one tiny thing that has escaped their capabilities.
None of them, not one, knows how to properly clean a house.
How do I know this? I spent this past New Year’s weekend at their house alone—just me and the dogs—and all the dog hair.
It wasn’t just the dog hair. It was the bathrooms. It was their bedrooms. It was everything.
In my last post, I gushed about how my kids were the better version of me, and as far as peopling goes, they are. But this—this—I don’t actually know what this is. The kids grew up in a clean and orderly house, so I’m not exactly sure where the disconnect is.
As the true adult in this situation, the buck must stop with me. After all, this post is titled “More Confessions from a Terrible Stay Home Mom.” The only logical explanation is they thought our house was magical and cleaned itself. Therefore they were totally unprepared for life on their own.
As I’ve made my way from the downstairs (as this is the most visible space), through the bathrooms, and bedrooms collecting laundry of ALL sorts, I’ve been texting helpful hints for avoiding this two-story petri dish of a house in the future. I’ve sent videos of how the washing machine actually works. I’m leaving a handwritten note on the fridge and in the bathrooms outlining what needs to be tended to, how often, and in what order.
And through all of this, I turned in my very own domestic diva mishap.
I almost set Elliott’s comforter on FIRE.
You see, I stripped all the beds—right down to the mattresses. I washed everything. The comforters take a minute longer to dry than sheets. They are also rather big and bulky and tend to get tangled up on themselves easier than sheets, towels, and the like.
I know this. Correction: I knew this, yet I somehow managed to miscalculate the drying time AND the temperature setting—until I smelled what could only be described as melting material.
I rescued the comforter in the nick of time from incineration, but not in enough time to prevent discoloration. It was incredibly hot to the touch, and upon closer inspection of the article, I discovered a substantial burn mark along the bottom edge. Had I been one minute later, things would have ended very differently.
Okay, so maybe my skills do not lie within the realm of the laundry room. But, I stand firm on my ability to make a bathroom shine and shimmer as though we were serving dinner for the Queen in there. My back, hands, and knees bear the signatures of their respective cleaning products and application.
Nobody is perfect. Perhaps, I could have been a little more instructive in the art of general housekeeping. Eventually (hopefully) they will learn for themselves. At the end of the day, even though they are technically adults, they are still “baby adults,” and these skills take time to develop. Laundry takes a little longer than others. Obviously.
As we travel forward in this New Year, I hope the path in front of you is dog-hair-free, and may none of your laundry catch on fire.
Dallas