Navigating Life’s Messy Parts
Looking back on my happiest memories, these moments have more to do with finding peace and tranquility and less with messiness.
It’s a Tuesday night and I’m exhausted. I decide we’re going to sit down as a family and eat our dinner while watching a movie. I pick Marley and Me. I’ve been wanting to surprise the kids with a puppy for Christmas, so I think this would be a fun movie to watch.
It’s the scene where Jennifer Aniston’s character is exhausted after caring for her two young kids while battling the outlandish antics of their family dog, Marley. She fights with Owen Wilson’s character about getting rid of the dog.
Later that night they discuss the stresses of marriage and parenting; how no one ever told them it was going to be this hard. My husband and I exchange knowing looks. We’ve had this exact conversation a thousand times before.
Then the movie changes to the next scene, months (and then quickly years) later.
“Wait!” I say, pausing the movie, “Where’s the messy part?!? How do they get through it? They can’t just skip ahead. I need to know how they made it through the messy part!”
“They didn’t. They just survived.”
“I know. But what does that look like?”
My Messy Life
It was getting close to our kids’ bedtime and they desperately needed a bath (we’d already skipped two nights in a row and couldn’t possibly do a third). So we left the movie unfinished and muscled through our bedtime routine. As we did, I contemplated my own question: “How do you navigate life’s messy parts?”
I’m trying to make Scarlett laugh as I scrub her down with soap suds and bubbles. Bronson shouts, “I’m a starfish” as he spreads his arms and legs as far as he can in our very cramped bath tub.
Is this the messy part?
I’m done washing the kids now and walk to the laundry room. My husband laughs when I call it a “room.” It’s more of a glorified closet. I pass by random articles of clothing littered carelessly throughout the hallway. In our laundry “room,” each family member has their own basket of clean clothes. All of which are stacked haphazardly on the washer and dryer, threatening to tumble down at any moment. I don’t put away the laundry like a good housekeeper would, but at least the clean clothes are all somewhat organized.
I dig forever through Scarlett’s basket. I can never seem to find a matching pair of socks.
This certainly is messy, I think as I walk through the hallway past the scattered clothes and toys. I place Scarlett’s pajamas on our bed and note how poorly lit our room is. The ceiling fan’s lightbulb is burnt out. It has been ever since my husband moved into this home when we separated last April. And it still hasn’t been replaced. Not even when the kids and I moved back in with him after our landlord unexpectedly sold the house and kicked us out in August.
I’m digging through Bronson’s basket now, struggling to find a matching pair of socks for him as well.
Maybe I should only buy the kids black socks from now on. Then they will always have matching pairs.
I catch my reflection in the hallway window. My sweater is a crop top and my leggings are high-rise. But they’re not sky-high high-rise, so my muffin top and belly flab still bulge over the waistband.
I even look messy.
I notice the smell of juniper and pine. It’s a candle I lit in the kitchen. I love it and vow to always have this candle on hand.
Finally we get the kids out of the tub and onto our bed to get dressed. “I’m syrup,” Scarlett says laughing, “I drink syrup and I eat syrup because I’m syrup.”
We wrestle them down to comb their hair. Bronson is as resistant as ever, so I give him my phone to watch TikToks. They’re ones I’ve saved, so they’re mostly dog videos, but there’s an occasional f-word here and there.
Oops…you can’t win ’em all.
Now Scarlett is dancing on the bed and shaking her bare butt in my face, on beat, to rubber chickens singing “YMCA.”
You really can find anything on the internet.
We put the kids down. Bronson is still sleeping on just his old crib mattress on the floor. I’ve been wanting to give him Scarlett’s toddler bed and buy her a new one. But she’s been asking for a bunk bed for almost a year. Determined to make her five-year-old dreams come true but not break the bank, I’ve been holding out for a bunk bed specifically from Ikea. But due to all the shipping problems sparked by the pandemic, all of Ikea’s bunk beds have been out of stock for the last six months.
As I’m closing their bedroom door, I notice their toothbrushes untouched on the bathroom counter.
Oh no. We forgot to brush their teeth…Well, no turning back now. They’re already in bed.
Immediately I begin to pick up the scattered clothes to do a load of laundry before bed. I realized this morning that I, too, did not have a clean, matching pair of socks.
“Why are you still working? Don’t you ever stop?” my husband asks.
“I do. And then I get behind.”
I start the washer and begin digging through Scarlett’s clean clothes basket again. If I set out tomorrow’s clothes the night before, I have more time to workout and shower before taking her to school. Frustrated, I once again struggle to find the ever aloof matching pair of socks.
Downstairs in the kitchen I notice all the unwashed dishes and leftover food from dinner.
This definitely is the messy part.
I turn a blind eye and decide I’ll clean up tomorrow. I want to finish the movie. Maybe Owen Wilson will have some parting advice about life.
The dog dies. Which is expected from every dog movie. I wipe my face on my sleeve when the credits start to roll. I kiss my husband good night and head upstairs to navigate my whirling thoughts about life’s messy parts.
How To Navigate Your Own Messy Parts
I wish I could say there’s some life-changing lesson here about how life is the messy parts. About how when the kids are grown you’ll miss all the mess. But I don’t know if I believe that. Not yet, at least.
Looking back on my favorite memories amid the mess, these moments have more to do with finding peace and tranquility and less to do with messiness:
-A new book and a cup of lemon ginger tea.
-A family cuddle puddle with the kids in our bed.
-Admiring the small features of my babies’ hands and feet.
-Doubling-over laughing when my husband accidentally hit the wall and jammed his finger.
-Reaching for a foil blanket after jumping into a frozen lake in the middle of winter.
-Cuddling with my grandma’s mourning dog after my grandpa died.
Though these memories can happen during messy moments and in messy places, they often ring true and sweet in spite of all the messiness. I loved that cup of tea, despite all the guilt pouring in about unfinished chores. That cuddle puddle happened in the middle of a hectic weekday morning. I love those fingers and toes, even though they do some major damage to a clean home. My husband and I have always been able to make each other laugh, no matter what marriage problems we’re facing. The lake was so cold I seriously thought I would never resurface again. Of all the family members I interacted with at the funeral, that dog was the most honest and open creature with me about how upsetting it was to lose my grandpa.
So no, I don’t believe that life is the messy parts. Or some other cliche found on a Hobby Lobby wall hanging.
Life is messy, that’s a fact. But no, I will not miss the dirty dishes, the sticky fingerprints, the unpaid bills, the endless loads of laundry, or the sleepless nights and tears. But I will cherish the fleeting moments when I found something magical that let all the messiness fade into the background. Noticing these quiet, magical moments is how we make it through the messy parts.
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