At any given moment, in any given household, somewhere near the intersection of sheer audacity and complete ignorance, a tiny human is tucking something sticky into a small space where it will take months to find.
The clutter and crud of having children doesn’t infiltrate all at once. It trickles in, one Lego and one mysterious stain at a time. Toddlers kindly usher you into the utter environmental chaos that is parenting by gifting you with globs of mashed food paste and snot smears. Eventually, they venture over to the Tupperware drawer and at some point, after the 50,000th time you restack the containers, you realize (and reluctantly accept) that your home is never going to be the same. At least for the next 18 years, give or take.
Our chicks have an innate ability to destroy a small space with very minimal effort. On a typical school day, they walk through the door at 2:40 p.m. Without fail, by 2:45 I am trudging through a trash heap of book bags, folders, socks, shoes, snack wrappers, water bottles, masks and coats, stepping into some tall combat boots and assuming my role as Sergeant O’ Slop.
“Whose papers are these?”
“Why is your chromebook in the bathroom?”
“Did somebody step in something?”
“Pick up that underwear, please.”
“Why are your socks wet?”
“How was I supposed to know it needed signed?”
“I don’t care if the dog wants to eat it.”
A few years back – and a good nine years into our life in the landfill – Hank coined a term for this blatant behavior. He calls it “F yo house!”
Since it’s generally frowned upon to completely lose your ever-lovin’ mind over every single mess your precious children leave in their wake, looking at your spouse and being able to sigh and pseudo-swear is a great way to let some pressure out of the cooker. Because let’s be honest, there are times when, in the face of a cushion fort left up five requests to remove too long, or a countertop smeared in Nutella artwork, or a shower curtain left outside the tub yet again, the mind boggles as to how three little humans could be so gosh dang dirty. So deliberate in their disorder. With absolutely zero regard for the tidal wave of bewilderment and turmoil it triggers in the caretakers with whom they coexist and rely on for food and shelter.
You have to find ways to laugh or you’ll cry. Or scream. Or get in your car and drive to the nearest ice cream shop and lose your mind over three scoops of Mint Chocolate Chip. Not that I’ve ever made any concrete plans.
True story, I try to give the girls responsibility and instill a decent work ethic. I put their clean laundry on their beds and tell them to put away everything they can reach and I’ll do the rest. (It’s tough for Sloppy Joan to hit the higher rack in her closet.) I had mentioned to Hank how impressed I was with our littlest chick’s willingness to abide by this simple request, when her sisters often resisted.
One day, while in her room, I saw a sleeve sticking out from under her new big girl bed. I got down on my hands and knees and pulled. And then pulled another sleeve. Then a leg. Then a jacket. I pulled and I pulled and I pulled. This kid had stashed probably three months’ worth of clean clothes under her bed. All the while basking in my praise for a job well done. F yo house!
Karma is real and it has a fantastic sense of humor. I can remember my mom stacking our miscellaneous mess on the steps when I was a little. Surely we couldn’t walk by these items without carrying them up to our rooms. But we did. We skipped a step and went on our merry ways, like the wicked turds we were. Time and time again. Now I’m the one strategically positioning purses and chapter books and pillows shaped like various pets on my stairs. And I’m the one flabbergasted at their determination to dodge the inventory. F yo house!
I don’t think my kids are bad kids. I don’t think I was a bad kid. I think that all children live in a fairy land in which a magical vacuum comes on at night and sucks up all of the toys and trash and discarded clothing, revealing a clean slate in the morning light. But then you grow up and have kids of your own and realize that we are the vacuums. We are the trash collectors, scum scrubbers and shoe finders. And it’s a really crappy part of the job.
When my brother was in elementary school, my mom got so fed up with his messy room, she opened a window, gathered up everything from his floor and threw it out onto the front lawn. For years when they would recount the story, I couldn’t understand how she thought that was a good idea. I mean, it didn’t even really bother him. But now I can totally see it. Raptured by F-yo-house rage, the poor woman was possessed by a power much greater than her patience. She cannot be held accountable for the acts she carried out amid the blinding fury of a mother saddled with her offspring’s indefensible debris. I see you now. And I stand with you.
It’s a burn we all feel every time we uncover a new act of bold, unthinkable negligence.
Every time you move a couch and find a treasure chest of moldy snacks and the match to the sock you just gave up on and threw away last weekend. F yo house!
Every empty applesauce pouch under the coffee table. F yo house!
Every streak of crusty, dried toothpaste that’s been squeezed and spat along the rim and counter of the bathroom sink. F yo house!
Every abandoned scooter, box of chalk, bubble blower, bucket and helmet in the front yard. F yo house!
The discovery of a Gatorade bottle stuck in the backseat cup holder from last summer’s soccer practice. F yo house!
The wet towels on the floor.
The crushed goldfish, every freaking where.
The tissues that miss the trash.
The unraveled toilet paper.
The smears, smudges and full-on handprints on the walls.
The cups with one swig left.
The broken crayons and dried out markers.
Stickers on car windows.
Unfolded blankets.
Opened nail polish.
Hidden remotes.
The lights, oh the lights, always left on when they leave for school.
F. YO. HOUSE.
Hey, that’s just kids, right? If they came out perfect, there’d be nothing left for us to do. God makes ‘em cute so we don’t get rid of them. I’ll miss this someday. All the things. I know, I know.
But so help me, it feels good to commiserate every once in a while. As Hank likes to say, we just aren’t in the stage of life when we can “have nice things.” And certainly the day will come when we have nice things and would trade them for just one more year with our little chicks. It’s probably best to just admire how green the grass is in my own yard for now. Even with all the toys and shit in it.
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