By Lacey Major
Some weeks I feel like I’m a rock star mom/wife/editor. And some weeks, like this week … yeah, not so much.
Some weeks I feel like I’m a rock star mom/wife/editor. And some weeks, like this week … yeah, not so much. I’ll start with the state of my home. It needs to be cleaned, guys—really badly. There’s a slippery spot outside the door of our downstairs bathroom, and every single person has almost busted their rear end on it at some point over the past three days (with the exception of my husband, but his time is coming—I can feel it). No one knows why it’s slippery right there, but it is. Which is a little troublesome. Next on the list: The rug in our kitchen is so yucky that even my son commented on its need for a good vacuuming. When an 8-year-old boy recommends a cleaning, it’s in bad shape. And the laundry—it’s never ending. I could do laundry every single day all day long and I still don’t think I’d ever get caught up. I seriously want everyone to just go naked for one day so I don’t find a near-full load in the hamper as soon as I’ve finished a day of washing, drying, folding and sorting. (Isn’t that the most depressing thing ever?) I have also found that my flighty brain is making my job more challenging this week. When I go to close my computer at the end of the day, I find half-written emails that I thought I’d sent off hours ago. I search and search and search for the perfect product to finish off a mood board, only to come up empty and start the whole process all over again the next day. I’m not even going to tell you how long it took me to get motivated to write this post. But you know what’s been most challenging? It’s been so nice outside this week. It’s still not super warm, but it’s sunny. I just want to go ride bikes with my kids, or sit at soccer practice and soak up the sun. I don’t want to mop floors or cook dinner or do any of the things that so obviously need doing. Let’s just order pizza. Again.
There’s been a lot of this going on this week.
Whenever I get like this, I start beating myself up for being a “bad mom.” My kids deserve a clean house and a non-scatterbrained mother and healthy dinners, with vegetables that aren’t smothered in cheese and tomato sauce. But then I look at their happy little faces, and I realize that I must not be doing too terribly. My son might have noticed the dirty floor, but he also noticed the numerous games of basketball we played in the driveway—and I’m hopeful it’s the latter he’ll remember when he’s older. So I’m going to give myself a break for now, and dive headfirst into productivity on Monday morning. Because there’s a whole weekend ahead for me to enjoy before I get back to business.