Please god help me bless this mess

The one where I try really hard not to become my mum, but it happens anyway.

Image created by author in Canva

My mum is what we affectionately call a “clean freak” — someone who can not stand mess or dirt of any kind. Growing up, our house was like a museum. Physical evidence of life was simply not permitted — no drips, no crumbs and definitely NO CRAFT.

Bed sheets were folded tightly with hospital corners, meals were mainly microwaved to minimise mess, and the floor was vacuumed and mopped daily (sometimes twice daily). Every surface was wiped, then inspected at different angles and in various lighting conditions, and wiped again until all drips, marks and streaks were eliminated.

Speaking of elimination, I don’t think my poor dad has been able to eliminate his bowels freely in over fifty years. I’m pretty sure his shit is not permitted to make contact with the side of the toilet bowl — it must fall vertically and land without a splash, just like an Olympic diver, but smellier (though she’d prefer if it didn’t smell too if possible).

Speaking of smells, the aromas that remind me of home are not cakes rising, pies baking or chickens roasting, but rather white vinegar, pine-scented surface spray and bleach.

The sounds that remind me of home are not music or laughter, but the vacuum cleaner whirring, the dust buster buzzing (remember those?) and my mother yelling: “WHY IS THE FLOOR STICKY HERE?!” and “WHO DROPPED THESE CRUMBS HERE!” and “I’LL HAVE TO MOP THE FLOOR AGAIN NOW!:”

For a long time, we had that kind of high-pile carpet that changes colour when you walk on it. My mum couldn’t stand the carpet being a mottled mess (her words), so after entering a room, I eventually became accustomed to dragging my foot back over to even it out.

I was an only child (sad horn), which was probably one of the preconditions for my mum being able to maintain this unholy level of cleanliness. As a parent of three myself now, I struggle to keep the toilet clean for more than thirty minutes.

When I was little, I accepted this as normal, but once I started school and began spending time at other kids’ homes, I realised there was a whole different type of house — a lovely, messy, lived-in one.

I couldn’t believe my eyes when I saw dishes in the sink, clothes on the bedroom floors and magazines and VHS tapes strewn over the living room (yes, it was the eighties).

What WAS this heavenly place where you could relax and enjoy yourself? I felt at home, finally.

My mum’s clean freakery became legend amongst my friends. My house was permanently off limits. The few friends who did come over were terrified of doing or touching anything, and I was even more scared of my mum’s reaction.

Even my friends’ parents knew the reputation of our house, so it was accepted that I would hang out at their places. As a parent myself now, I realise how annoying this must have been — me constantly eating their food and making a mess, with my parents never returning the favour.

When I was around nine or ten, my best friend’s parents had some family friends with a teenage daughter named Jocelyn. Even her name was exciting to us: JOCELYN — a real-life teenage girl.

SO COOL.

We went to their house one afternoon, and Jocelyn was out.

My friend and I snuck away from the parents and edged towards Jocelyn’s room.

“You go in.”

“No, you do it.”

“I’m not opening it!”

“Let’s just peek inside.”

We opened the door ever so slightly, and my sanitised little pre-teen eyes had never seen anything so magical.

Posters plastered on every wall — Kurt Cobain, Axel Rose, Christian Slater and Luke Perry. Nirvana t-shirts, sparkly jackets and Levi jeans draped over every surface. Shoes — Converse, Doc Martens, high heels — scattered around the floor. Her dressing table was a cluttered mess of eyeshadows, foundation, eyeliner and glitter.

THIS WAS LIVING.

From that moment on, I knew what I needed: MESS.

As I entered my teenage years, my frustration over not having a “normal” house frequently erupted.

“Why do I have to live like this!?” I would stamp and strop.

“What are you keeping the house like this for!? WHO CARES!?”

“I HATE YOU AND I WISH I DIDN’T LIVE HERE. I WANT A NORMAL MUM!”

Despite my constant rage and rebellion, we got through high school, but the minute I turned 18, I moved out. To be clear, the clean freakery wasn’t the only reason — that was just a symptom of deeper issues boiling beneath the very clean surface.

For the next decade and a half, right through university and in various London flat-shares, I struck a relatively happy balance of just enough mess. Plus, my mum lived on the other side of the world, so finally, the glaring eyes of judgment were banished.

Then, when I reached my thirties and fell pregnant, something strange started to happen.

Suddenly, I needed everything to be totally clean and organised. Some of you might say this was just “nesting”, but only if the bird had psychological problems and a labelling addiction.

Once my son was born, things kicked up another gear. My life became like an intricate game of Tetris where the blocks were replaced with interlocking storage systems. The only problem was that the game could never be completed because the mess kept returning every day.

Challenge accepted.

Little socks in pairs in here. Onesies folded in this specific way there. Bottles stacked just like this. Blankets stored just like that. Woe betide the unlucky chump (Andrew) who got it wrong.

Then I bought a fucking label maker and lost my mind.

No single shoe or shelf escaped my psychotic mission to ORGANISE. I even joined a Facebook group called “Mums Who Organise” and frothed out on all the different ways I could make the house and our lives even more tidy.

I was unstoppable.

Two years later, our twins came along. Suddenly, there were three kids, each with their own “stuff” (mess).

Most normal parents would have waved the white flag at this point.

Did I?

NO, I DID NOT.

I doubled down, obviously. More chaos just required more organisation. I could survive one of the most (okay, THE MOST) stressful periods of my life with more stackable containers, tidy trays and a carefully calibrated labelling system.

Each day was already a huge struggle to get the basics done, like ensuring everyone was clean(ish), fed and rested to the appropriate degree. Most sane mums likely would have said:

“You can’t do it all.”

“Leave it for tomorrow.”

“Just throw it all in a room and shut the door.”

But not this crazed cleaning commando.

Over time, I noticed myself getting annoyed with the kids for making a mess — if you’ve ever seen twins start eating solids with their hands, you will understand. Every time they threw food on the floor or chucked a toy across the room, I would tut and rush to clean it up.

Then I started avoiding certain satanic rituals, like painting and baking, because I knew what a mess (and extra work for me) they would create.

Then, naturally, I started to hate myself.

I HAD BECOME MY MOTHER.

At first, I assumed this was just learned behaviour — I saw my mum do it, so I am doing it too.

Then I realised that for both my mum and me, this all came back to our common frenemy: CONTROL.

Once I had kids, my life became completely chaotic. I needed a way to wrangle it into something that didn’t give me a panic attack.

Keeping on top of everything was my way of coping, but it was actually making things worse. Partly because I was terrified of becoming like my mum, but also because it was exhausting.

Now, some of you might think, hey, you need to be organised with three kids — I don’t blame you. And to a degree, that's true. If we had to get the kids ready for daycare and make it to work on time, we needed to know exactly where their clothes, shoes, nappies, bottles and favourite teddy bears were at any given moment.

However, like most seemingly healthy and logical things, this can go too far.

Growing up the way I did likely created a level of anxiety and resentment that has never been repaired between me and my mum. I really didn’t want to replicate that with my own kids.

So, over time, bit by bit, I started to let go. I could leave the dishes for tomorrow sometimes. I could sit down and have a cup of tea amidst kid rubble, even if I was itching to clear it away. And fuck the shoes scattered around the shoe rack (I’m sorry this is still triggering) — it really doesn’t matter.

As the kids got a bit older, we encouraged them to start cleaning up their own damn shit (literal and metaphorical). This was a whole other exercise in “letting go”. As in, letting go of the fact that my son’s idea of putting his freshly laundered and carefully folded clothes away was to ram them into any old drawer, then yell, “MUUUUM, WHERE ARE MY SCHOOL SHORTS?” the next morning when he couldn’t find them.

A couple of years ago, in an unexpected plot twist, we moved back to my hometown. Suddenly, my parents were close enough to pop in once a week. This changed the dynamic again.

What if my mum saw streaks on the bathroom mirror or crumbs on the kitchen floor? What if she felt stickiness on our counter or saw the kids’ shoes lying around?!

For the first few months in our new house, Andrew and I would kill ourselves every Sunday morning on a hysterical scurryfunge¹.

Then my mum would come over, sit down, look up and say:

“Your windows are very dirty.”

That’s when I realised this is an unwinnable game. My house could never be clean enough to meet my mother’s exacting standards.

But also: WHO FUCKING CARES.

What did all the cleanliness (and controlling) get her? A strained relationship with her only child and a lifetime of frustration.

I don’t mean to sound harsh towards my mum. Of course, she had her own demons that drove her to behave this way, but that is her story, and this is mine.

These days, I care a lot less about keeping my house (and life) in perfect order. I mean, even Marie Kondo gave up on the life-changing magic of tidying up once she had three kids. Everyone has to face reality eventually.

But now and then, my mum’s voice still pipes up in my head.

Last weekend, a good friend popped in for a drink. In the next room, the kids had exploded with craft supplies, including kilometres of multi-coloured wool, 205 popsicle sticks, 498 tiny pom-poms, and an open bottle of glue lying on the floor.

I went to say something like: “Make sure you clean all that up when you’re done!” Then I closed my mouth and sat back, realising the kids were playing so nicely together and there was not even a screen in sight.

Having known me for over twenty years, my friend simply smiled, acknowledging my decision to let it go, and we continued our conversation.

So am I ready to finally bless this mess?

Almost, but not before I get a neat new storage tub for all those hats near the front door. They’re driving me crazy!

Big love,

Sara xo

Scurryfunge (verb) sku-ree-fun-j

1. Old English; to rush around cleaning when company is on their way over.

Thank you for opening my box of shit this week! I’m still fascinated by how people live, and what constitutes the “right” level of mess. I’d love to know whether you’re a Neat Nancy or a Messy Mandy. Hit me up in the comments!

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