The Happy Life of a Big Old Slob

by Sheri Smith

This article originally appeared in the September 2009 issue of Forum.

It’s the kind of question that inevitably arises when a group of moms comes together and everyone finally gets a chance to compare notes on the behind-the-scenes world of mommyhood.  “What’s the most surprising thing you’ve discovered since having children?” one perky new mom asked the rest.

The responses poured forth from the crowd: “What a control freak I am.” “How little sleep I can function on.” “How much love I’m capable of.”  “How much time and energy I spend worrying.”  “Losing so much of my own identity.”  And then there was my own answer.  I didn’t even have to think a millisecond about it. “Housework!” I said.  “I had no idea there would be so much housework.” 

The all-nighters, the earaches, the whining, the overwhelming love and accompanying guilt, the loss of alone time, none of it surprised me as much as the sheer quantities of down-and-dirty cleaning that would be involved with childrearing.  While pregnant, I had happy images of going to the park with my kids and coming home to bake cookies and make crafts.  Little did I imagine the grass-stained pants, the icing on the curtains, and the glittered carpets that would accompany all of these events.  When I put my career on hold, I really thought it would be to spend time with my children, not to play Cinderella by scrubbing floors and doing laundry day and night.  And yet, how many hours of my day did I spend doing exactly these things compared with how much time I spent playing with my kids? 

“Why don’t we all just drop the charade?” one of my friends said to me one day out of the blue.  Her words felt subversive, like she was asking me to join some underground movement.  “We should stop acting as if our houses always look the way they do just before playgroup when we all know the reality is the post-playgroup phase is much closer to the truth.”  I was shocked.  This woman’s home, every time I had been there, had been immaculate.  It was hard to imagine her toy chests upended and Goldfish crumbs covering her upholstered chairs.  “We have preschoolers, for Pete’s sake. What can anyone expect?” 

I was flabbergasted.  It was like being a kid and seeing your teacher at the grocery store for the first time, or worse yet, coming out of a bathroom.  You mean, she’s human?  It was mind-blowing information.

But what she was saying made sense.  Who were we trying to fool?

The funny thing is, I wasn’t concerned about neatness when I was in my 20s, pre-kids and single.  If my apartment was messy, if the laundry was piling up, who cared?  I had a party to get to.  Priorities, people!  It wasn’t until motherhood, with those “perfect mommy” images rearing their ugly heads, that I wanted the house beautiful, the children spotless, the lawn manicured and the flowers watered. 

But for whom? 

It’s like when my best friend and I were looking through old photo albums together and we realized that all the pictures where we were the skinniest were the worst times of our lives.  When people would compliment us on our weight loss, we should have said, “Thank you. I’m on the stress and self-loathing diet.”  But a larger truth arose for me out of that night.  Sometimes life, when it’s at its best, isn’t perfect. 

The couple extra pounds packed on during the Caribbean cruise where I indulged in dessert and wine every night at dinner were well worth it.  And so are the fingerprints on the windows and the puzzle pieces on the floor.  The best days we have around here are the ones we’ve dragged out the most toys and have been absolutely careless with the sand from the sandbox.  This is the childhood I want my kids to remember—a life where we cut out cookies and got dough in our hair, not where mommy vacuumed constantly and was always cross about fingerprints on the walls. 

I’m not talking about completely letting myself go or living in grime and feces.  But I am no longer looking for perfection, but rather that place of happy mediocrity where I take things as they come, a place where mommies have laugh lines because they do laugh, a lot, and where chunky thighs just show how great a chocolate chip cookie sundae with sprinkles and whipped cream you can make.  I’m learning to embrace this mediocre place, where play and rest and fun are now the goals, but it takes a little practice every day.

Sheri Smith is a creative writing instructor and mother of two who resides in Woodridge, IL, where she continues to find life both hopelessly chaotic and endlessly entertaining.  Her favorite foods are wine and chocolate.  Her favorite coping mechanism: humor. She is a member of Dupage County, IL Chapter 1.