As I tell my 3 year old yet again, to pick up his toys, I hear my daughter crying from her crib. I was hoping she would put herself to sleep for her nap so I could get my toddler settled for quiet time and then clean up our lunch dishes, throw in some laundry, and clean up the absurd amount of toys that are scattered all over our house. And maybe, just maybe, I would have a few minutes to read or write or just sit in absolute silence for a couple minutes. Her screaming continues though, so the chance of getting those few minutes of alone time that I desperately want is getting slimmer and slimmer. I quickly help my son pick up the gigantic pile of Magnatiles and Hot Wheels cars covering the floor in his room and tuck him into bed. I read a very quick story to him, plop a quick kiss on his forehead and close his door until it’s open just a crack. 

Then I go into my daughter’s room. She’s fed, changed, and has been by herself in her crib for 4 minutes so naturally, she’s a basket case. I pick her up and take my familiar seat in the recliner and rock her until she’s asleep, where I then put her back into her crib. I leave her bedroom and walk the few steps down to our main living area and sigh.

It looks like a bomb went off. I internally groan and for a second, debate just burning the house down (kidding… kind of). I collect all of the lunch dishes, load the dishwasher, pick up the toys, and switch the laundry that’s been sitting in the washer all morning. I look over at the sliding glass door and I can see the perfect handprints of both my kids and it makes me roll my eyes. My kids cannot resist touching a clean sliding glass door. It’s like their way of saying “we were here,” almost like proof of their existence. As if I could ever possibly forget, looking at this house. I look around me at the proof of their existence in my home—the clutter and the messes. And for a second I try to see it for what it is: proof that my kids are playing and learning here. They fill their bellies and rest their little bodies here in this house. They read books, color, build forts, cuddle with the dogs, and love on each other right here in this house. This is the place where they learn and grow and live. And it shows. 

Don’t get me wrong, I get aggravated at constantly cleaning up after everyone. I don’t love that both my dogs shed, or that it is a nightly battle with my 3 year old to pick up his toys. Like, literally every single night we have to tell him over and over and over again to pick up his toys. I wish the sliding glass door would stay spotless for more than five minutes. But I try to remind myself that it won’t always be this way.

One day the kitchen countertops won’t be covered with scraps of construction paper and graham cracker crumbs. There won’t always be half-eaten applesauce pouches cluttering the shelves in the fridge and baby bottles and pump parts next to the kitchen sink waiting to be washed. One day I will be able to walk across my living room floor without stepping on a teething toy, and I’ll remember to switch the laundry before it starts to smell. Eventually the giggling and screeching and the voice of Lightning McQueen in the background will be replaced with silence. One day I will vacuum the carpet, and the straight clean lines will actually stay. One day there will be no little feet to run across the room and mess them up. 

But the messes and clutter and constant cleaning up are proof of a home that has little ones that also call this place their home. Vacuum lines in the carpet will be here before I know it, so maybe today I’ll just admire the row of rainbow Hot Wheels cars on the living room rug. There will be plenty of time for cleaning up later.

This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Still Motherhood".