Recently I was running around my disheveled home joyfully like a chicken with its head cut off, stepping on remnants of smeared grape jelly and trying in vain to control the little tic under my left eye that threatened to develop each time I felt my sock stick to said syrupy mess. Suddenly I was interrupted in my blatant ignorance of dirty floors by the sound of an incoming text message.
I grabbed my phone thinking it was finally a reply from my husband in regards to the hilarious YouTube link I had forwarded him earlier. I mean it was funny and I couldn’t wait for his agreement in how awesome I was at tracking down ridiculous videos. But that would have to wait. It wasn’t him but rather a female friend giving me a head’s up of an impromptu visit. “I’ll be by in 15 minutes” she said.
It’s an unspoken rule that women try to give one another a forewarning of a visit to each other’s houses. It’s a common courtesy to warn, “I’m about to enter your fortitude of solace. I’m thinking of breaking into your comfort zone where you can normally be yourself without repercussion or judgement. I’m gonna charge in and break down your facade of normalcy. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.”
It might as well be 15 hours! Doesn’t matter. I’ll never be prepared for company. Not fully.
I sat down my phone after having tapped out aggressively, “No problem. Sounds good!” Then I added a little smiley face. Not a huge, teeth showing a big ole grin smiley face, but a little one that covered my unease. I looked around at my kitchen in horror and thought, no way.
The sink wasn’t merely full. It was overflowing. Meatloaf-tainted water spilled out of an overturned casserole dish and partially flooded the counter. A little army of sippee cups filled with strangely solidified milk floated in a sea of cartoon character themed plates and bowls. To say it was overwhelming was an understatement. To say it was its normal appearance would be extremely accurate.
It wasn’t that I was overly concerned with what someone thought of the state of my home. Most of my visitors have or have had children, so I realize they know where I’m at in life, and the majority find themselves in the same boat. It’s not that I care what they think, but I guess I do. I don’t mind them knowing I have a messy house, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to concede to the fact of just how messy it really was. I usually found myself stuffing away toys, trying to organize piles of bills and child’s drawings into some semblance of order, and pushing piles of laundry to one side of the couch, or even better, hauling it off to my room so it was hidden from view completely.
Back in my crazy mess of a kitchen I contemplated my next move. The baby was still asleep. That’s like golden time. My tummy rumbled. I was at a crossroads. I could decide to clean my kitchen or I could use the time to actually sit down for a meal without having to simultaneously breastfeed or entertain someone between lukewarm bites.
I opted for the hot meal and opened myself up to the admission of being a hot mess. And it was awesome. It was liberating. I felt freedom in my honesty of mediocrity of motherhood and humble housewife skills.
It felt good to admit, “I’m a hot mess and that’s okay.”
My house is a hot mess! If you’ve been over and it looked neat it was probably because 1) I knew you were coming, and 2) You arrived in that rare moment that arrives directly after cleaning and seconds before the children destroy it. The rest of the time it’s a mess. A hot mess. Always. I’m surprised we escape unscathed the majority of the time, and the rest of the time I’m looking over my shoulder for an A&E camera crew.
I’m a hot mess! I’m always sporting at least an inch of uncolored roots on my head. Not that it matters since I usually have some form of dried food in my tangled tresses. I don’t know where my iron is located. Not that I would have the time or inclination to iron. My clothes usually don’t fit properly. I’m unaware of my current size after spending the past four years gaining weight, losing weight, gaining weight, losing weight, repeat. The clothes I do wear are decorated with differing forms of my children’s bodily fluids. If you have seen me out looking extremely put together then it’s possible I have an unknown twin. It couldn’t have been me.
My children are a hot mess! Someone is usually going to be sleepy, hungry, cranky, throwing a tantrum, making a smart-mouthed comment, crying, pawing on me in some form or another, misbehaving, hitting someone, trying to steal something, or wiping some form of their bodily fluids on my clothing. If they are not doing one of these things then perhaps they are asleep. Or they just finished doing one of these things and haven’t moved on to the next misadventure. I may call them a hot mess, but you may not. I’m sure you understand. If you call them that I’ll turn into that “hot mess, rowdy” Mom.
My marriage is probably the least messy thing I experience, but it’s still a pretty hot mess when it wants to be. We’re not perfect. There’s many a day I curse him under my breath while picking up his inside-out discarded boxers and socks from the living room floor. We misunderstand each other at times. Sometimes we give each other the silent treatment for a bit. We disagree.
The best part is we know the other one is a bit of a hot mess, but we love each other anyway. Somehow collectively we’re not so much of a mess. We bring out the best in each other. When one gets messy, the other one is not so much. It somehow works. If you call my husband a hot mess you will experience that “rowdy” woman again.
And I can’t forget my past is a hot mess! I made a lot of mistakes. Big ones. I made poor decisions and suffered the consequences of my actions. It left me feeling like a complete failure, too much of a mess to ever be sorted out.
My past is still a hot mess, but it doesn’t define me. I may still be a mess, my life may be a mess, but my God defines it as a beautiful mess, a beautiful work in progress.
My sink is overflowing with dishes, but my life is overflowing with joy. My shirt is stained, but my soul is clean. My children are crazy, but they’re mine, and I love them more than the air I breathe. My spouse is not perfect, but in my eyes he is. He’s perfect for me. And I’m perfect for him.
Maybe I’m not as much of a hot mess as I thought I was.
But, please, still call before you come over.