Housekeeping when you have little kids...

The Power of Prayer

When our third child was a little baby, before we knew he had Williams Syndrome, my husband and our two older boys all got a nasty stomach virus. The baby had already spent multiple days and nights in the hospital due to RSV so I really didn’t want him to get the stomach bug. I locked the two of us in my room and declared it a germ-free zone.

The baby spent a lot of time nursing and snoozing in my arms. I decided it was as good a time as any to try praying the rosary. I had never quite understood the rosary and had never committed to trying it, but while I passed those hours in my nursing glider, I did some googling and learned how to say it. On one of the sites it said that Mary wants people to pray the rosary so much that when you do it for the first time, you should pray for something big--REALLY big--because she’ll want to help you so that you’ll continue saying it. So, I prayed for my baby’s health. It had been such a tough winter because of weather and disease and I had little stamina left to deal with the baby being sick again. I prayed and prayed--always for his health.

He got the virus. Not as bad as I feared, but he got it.

When it was all over, we moved the glider back to his room. I took the beads out of the chair’s pocket, tucked them in my nightstand drawer, and proceeded to disinfect our house.

A month or two later, our son got diagnosed with Williams Syndrome.

My faith was not shaken, but I sure wasn’t praying the rosary.

We went to many appointments and learned quickly that our most immediate concern should be about his heart. Our baby had the classic cardiovascular markers of kids with Williams Syndrome. We’d have to monitor him closely and hope that the narrowing of his vessels didn’t get really bad. After doing a few echocardiograms over the coming months, his doctors would see whether he was on a dangerous trajectory or not. We had reason to hope, but we knew that catheterizations were very likely, and if his aorta was significantly narrow, he’d have to have open heart surgery like so many other babies with Williams Syndrome. We hoped and prayed that we could put off any intervention until he was bigger and stronger.

In May we got news that we weren’t expecting: his vessels looked good! They hadn’t gotten any worse, and had maybe even gotten better! As a doctor explained it to us, when it’s bad it usually presents itself as bad by the time the child becomes as old as he was. We had, and continue to have, every reason to believe that our child’s cardiac involvement will remain mild. Things can change, but it’s likely that they won’t. At this point no one predicts that he’ll have medical intervention for his heart.

It felt like a miracle, and I remembered those rosary beads. Our baby got the stomach virus, but maybe Mary was working on something bigger than I could even imagine at the time. Our child had Williams Syndrome from the get-go; that wasn’t going to change. But as his vessels grew, they grew well enough for him to be healthy from a cardiovascular standpoint.

I say all this to say that I believe in the power of prayer and I’d like to ask for anyone who prays to say an extra one for someone whom I’ve never met. I’m part of an online support group for parents of little ones with Williams Syndrome. Right now, there is a little girl literally fighting for her life in England. She’s just a little younger than our child and she kind of looks like him. If you can, please say a prayer for her and her family because they really need it. We are very lucky that we don’t have to ask for prayers like that for our son so I’d like to ask for some for her. Thank you!

There's Something Called Williams Syndrome

“There’s something called Williams Syndrome.”

That’s what a cardiologist said to us about a year ago. I had no idea what Williams Syndrome was, and why would I? It affects only 1 in 10,000 people worldwide. It’s a very rare genetic condition that usually happens randomly. According to the Williams Syndrome Association’s website, “it is characterized by medical problems, including cardiovascular disease, developmental delays, and learning disabilities.  These often occur side by side with striking verbal abilities, highly social personalities and an affinity for music.”

I didn’t know all that at the time.

But I did know, as soon as the doctor said those words, that my youngest of three sons had it.

I had noticed enough dots—medical and developmental “quirks”— in my son’s first few months of life to know that there was probably a way to connect them. That day, I knew we had found our connection.

 

It was scary and sad but we had three children to take care of, including a baby that we were still getting to know, so we learned what we needed to, attended the appointments that we needed to, and did our best to survive our first year.

We’ve been blessed in many ways. Most importantly, our son’s cardiovascular issues appear to be mild. He has developmental delays and some other issues, but thankfully he is our third baby so we are more experienced, more distracted, and more exhausted to be too bogged down by all that.  There are lots of things that are hard, but there are lots of things that are really good. Most days, we focus on the good.

MAY is Williams Syndrome Awareness Month

I have struggled with how “aware” I want to make people of Williams Syndrome. I have always wanted everyone to think of my child as an individual—our son, who is as cherished as the others, who is adored by his brothers, and who has added so much joy to our family. I want people to know him, not just be aware that he has some rare genetic condition. And I don’t even know what to make people aware of because I’m still figuring out how Williams Syndrome will affect our child!

But he is now over a year old and I feel like we all really know him as his own self. He is cute and funny. He loves to smile, laugh and watch the big kids at home and at daycare. He enjoys music, playing, listening to conversations, blowing raspberries, engaging in lengthy back-and-forth babble-dialogues, and—more than anything—snuggling.

We love him. So much. He is not different from us; he is one of us.

You are now aware that Williams Syndrome exists. Now what? 

What’s so important about being  aware of something that is so rare? For one thing, if you are a medical professional or an educator, it is VITALLY important that you be aware that Williams Syndrome exists and that there is important information you need to know if you ever encounter a person with Williams Syndrome while on the job. Here are two useful links to get you started:

For medical professionals:

https://williams-syndrome.org/doctor

For teachers:

https://williams-syndrome.org/teacher

And what if you’re not a medical professional or educator?

You may not ever meet a person with Williams Syndrome, but you might. Chances are, you’ll know it if you do! Our baby is still quite young but from what I understand most people with WS are friendly—very friendly. The friendliness may surprise you; I imagine it would surprise me if I didn’t have an understanding of Williams Syndrome. So, now that you know about it, please don’t let that highly social personality keep you from being friendly back. Remember that the individual, if he or she is anything like my son, has a lot of love to give, and has a lot of people who love him or her.

Even if you never meet a person with WS, there are a lot of people out there with rare conditions—ones that I’ve never heard of, either. You’ll meet some of them in your life. Now, when I meet someone who seems different than me, I realize that we probably have more in common than I might have once thought. I hope that I am a little more accepting and a little kinder. For the sake of my child and all of us who are different in some way (because, who isn't?), I pray that we all will be accepting and kind, the way so many individuals with Williams Syndrome naturally are.

Want to help?

If you'd like to donate to the Williams Syndrome Association, please visit this website. "A gift of any amount will have an immediate impact on our understanding and treatment of WS." Thank you!

To My Son's Health Condition

I will not let you own me.

I will watch bees with my children
and help them find airplanes in the sky.

I will join friends for girls’ nights

and go out on dates with my husband.

I will learn new things,

and those things will not only be

ways you might affect my child’s

digestion

sleep

learning

and gross motor skills.

I will learn those things, too, of course,

and anything else I need to know about you.

I will be his fiercest advocate.

But I will also learn

how to find enjoyment in cooking,

how to take three children to the grocery store by myself,

and how to style my hair with a flat iron.

Because you do not own me.

You are not me.

You are a part of our family experience, it’s true,

but you don’t own us.

When I make soup

it will not be to distract myself from you;

it will be to figure out why the heck people love making soup so much.

And when I do,

my baby will lie on the floor in his little gym.

His oldest brother will lie next to him,

and let him play with his hair,

and giggle because it will tickle when he touches his arm.

The peace of that moment will not be because we have forgotten you;

it will be because the toddler will be taking a much-needed nap.

When he wakes up refreshed,

the four of us will read stories together,

play outside,

take a walk up the street,

and delight in finding a robin’s nest

or an abandoned snakeskin.

My son will never shed you like a snake sheds its skin.

You are an intrinsic part of him

like any bone, vessel, or organ.

But you alone do not constitute all that he is and all that he will be.

My child is himself; he is not you.

Neither are you all that I am, or all that I will be.

You are a part of us now,

and I don’t resent you.

You are who you are

and that is just fine.

I won’t push you out of my mind.

You are free to come and go as you please.

Because I don’t own you.

But always remember

that you

most definitely

do not

own

me.

To The One I Don't Worry About

We found out that we were having your little brother

just a few months after you turned one.

Your sparkling personality was just starting to emerge.

I worried about you;

your birthdays would be so close—

and near Christmas, to boot!

“There are worse things than a bad birthday,” I thought,

but I hoped that you two would at least have your own special days…

I worried about you

the middle child of three boys,

afraid that you’d be lost in the shuffle

as a toddler

as a schoolchild

as an adolescent

as a man.

But as we neared your 2^nd birthday,

I didn’t worry as much about you…

You, so feisty,

who draws everyone in

with your glimmering blue eyes

and joyful grin.

You, so smart,

who soaks in stories when I read them to you,

and stares at me intently when I sing a new song to you,

saying “Again!”

each time I finish,

and silently, almost imperceptibly mouthing the lyrics with me

as you learn them.

You, so confident and self-assured,

who announces, “I’m HERE!!!” when we get to daycare,

who doesn’t look back when you run off to be with the big neighborhood kids

and who couldn’t care less about rules,

knowing that you can just smile

and practically make me feel happy for you

for getting away with whatever mischief you cooked up.

When your baby brother came,

you loved him and were happy to have him,

but after remarking about his cute little toes

and telling me that he needed milk,

you turned back to your trucks, unaffected.

You were never an only child

and you went to daycare at a young age;

you knew the drill.

Whenever anyone asked me how you were adjusting to the new baby

I flippantly waved my hand

and explained how fine you were with everything about life.

“I don’t worry about him,” I laughed.

But that fact—the fact that I didn’t worry about you—concerned me.

Would I always feel that way?

Even though I didn’t worry,

you certainly gave me cause to:

breaking rules,

charming yourself out of consequences,

pushing out into the world

more than you pushed into my arms.

Your cool, confident air

made you less demanding of my worried attention.

But then—you changed a little.

You started to protest more when we left you at daycare.

Your responses became less verbal

with nonsensical yells of “Baaaa!” or “NnnnnnnAAA!” or “MMM-mmm…”

You became your most challenging whenever I nursed your brother—

running away from me at the playground

or announcing that you were going to carry not one but two blankets

down the slippery wooden stairs,

knowing full well that I would not remain sitting in the rocker and watch such risky behavior.

You found your ways to let me know that you needed me, too.

So I let the baby fuss longer so I could finish a story with you.

I encouraged your father to relearn how to give a squirmy infant a bath

so I could say prayers with you and put you to bed.

I made your older brother hush for a moment so you could answer some of my questions, too.

I left the baby at home with Dad and a bottle so I could take you to church with me,

where I held you in my arms while you pointed at a stained glass window and yelled “There’s Jesus!”

I delighted in pointing out the different symbols to you

and sang the pleasant hymns in your ear,

just as I had for your brother when he was your age.

Little One—

always make me worry.

Stay close enough to me

and speak enough to me

so that I notice a difference

when you have trouble adjusting,

or can’t find the words to express your anxieties,

or are looking for a way to escape your problems,

or consider doing something risky to get attention.

I promise to notice, my Love.

I promise to notice any change,

subtle though it may be,

because you are my baby

my boy

my precious Christmas gift

and I promise to see when you need me.

Please make me worry, my darling child.

Always make me worry.

How the Smart Phone Revolutionized Midnight Feedings

Long, long ago, before humans had smart phones, when a mom got up in the middle of the night to feed her hungry newborn, she sat there...

in the dark...

alone (except for the baby, of course). 

It was really exhausting.

Like, REALLY exhausting.

I speak from experience. I didn’t have a smart phone when I had my first baby. At the time, my friend with newborn twins told me about a baby sleep book she was reading. My biggest questions for her had nothing to do with sleep; they were a) How in the world do you have time to read? and b) How do you hold the book?! Her answers for both? She had a smart phone. 

You can bet that when I had my second baby, I made sure I had one of those suckers, too.

Here are some of the ways that the smart phone has made middle of the night feedings almost tolerable (for a little while, anyway…)

Alarm clocks

With my first baby, it got to the point that I barely got him latched on for a midnight feeding before I completely zonked out (not safe, I know, but I truly couldn't help it). I’d wake up 90 minutes later, cursing, and not knowing if I had ever switched sides, or how much he ate. He usually woke up hungry again 20 minutes later. After a few nights of that I gave up even trying to put him in the crib when I awoke and I just started nursing him all over again. Three hours after the initial wake-up I climbed back into my bed. It was the worst. Now, I do my best to stay awake long enough to set three alarms on my phone when I start: one to wake me after each side, and one called “Go to bed!” for after I hold him upright to keep his stupid reflux in check....

Baby Care Apps

I stressed sooo much in my first newborn’s early weeks using a paper and pen--in the dark--to log all his stupid feeding stuff. How many times did he nurse? How long? Which side? Did he pee? Poop? What color? Now, apps do the work for me. Thank you, Genius App Creator People.

Total Baby = Totally Awesome App

Celebrity Gossip Sites

I’ve downloaded a couple of high-quality literary novels and I do read some parenting articles on my phone, but nothing keeps me awake better than my repertoire of People.com, USmagazine.com, and (when I’m really desperate) TMZ.com. At 1 a.m., my brain can’t process much more than those sites. The only thinking I need to do is to try to figure out which celebrities (if any) are ones that I've actually heard of...

Um... I only know Tom Brady and Bobby Flay here. Wait--Harry Potter, too!!

Email

Wanna know when you had time to type emails when you had a newborn before smart phones came along? Never.

Flashlight

No more tripping over swings and bouncey seats.

Google

Now you can use some of the time you’re just sitting there to find the answers to your most burning questions: Will my baby ever sleep? Will my baby ever go more than two hours without eating? How much do overnight nannies charge???

            

Nighttime Selfies

Is this a thing? I have no idea if this is a thing. As you can gather from the fact that I had a baby before I had a smart phone, I am old, and I don’t get the whole “selfie” thing. But according to People.com, USmagazine.com, and TMZ.com, a lot of people take selfies. So I’m throwing this in here as something else you younger moms might find fun.

Texting with Other Moms

The best part about having a smart phone is that it takes some of the isolation out of being up multiple times a night for weeks (months…) on end to feed your baby. This is what I used to think to myself when I’d be sitting there, alone, without a smart phone:

I'm so tired. I can’t stand this. I love my baby, and this was kind of exciting the first few nights, but now, I can’t stand it. And I can’t stand my husband. Because he’s sleeping. And snoring.

Now, this is the kind of text exchange that I can have with my sister at 4 a.m. because she has a newborn, too:

Nevertheless, at the end of the day night, it doesn’t matter how smart your phone is… It could be the defending Jeopardy champion, but sleep deprivation would eventually prevail. When you find yourself waking up 2 hours after you started nursing with a crick in your neck, three alarms going off, and this unfinished text to your sister...

...you know it’s time to start downloading some articles from OMGSleepThroughTheNightAlready.com. Until then, rest assured (ha ha... rest...) that middle of the night feedings are at least a little bit less torturous than they used to be.

The Familiar Evening Routine | Mamalode

Here's a little poem I wrote that Mamalode published today. If you're so inclined, take a look around the site--it's a nice one with stories, etc. about parenting, all written by parents (and some grandparents, aunts, uncles, etc.) 

The Familiar Evening Routine | Mamalode

Living in Your Starter Home with a Baby Vs. Living in Your Starter Home with Three Kids

Everyone says that your years with little kids go by quickly. It’s true; before you know it, you can go from bringing your first baby home from the hospital to squeezing a third into the same house. Even though it’s the same structure, it’s a totally different place. I realized this the other day when we visited our friends and their one baby in their chic condo and thought, “We used to live like this.” We’ll probably always be in our starter home, which is just fine with us because we love it, but as we drove back that day to our 1,450 square feet of heaven, I couldn’t help but think of all the ways our home has changed in just a few short years.

Here are some differences between your starter home with one baby vs. your starter home with three little kids.

One Baby: Everything has its place.

Three Kids: The computer is in the kitchen, the pop-up fire truck tent is in the living room, the pack n’ play is in the hallway.

One Baby: When you want to open a cupboard door, you open it. When you want to lift the toilet seat cover, you lift it. When you want to get some toilet paper, just unroll.

Three Kids: Simple tasks now take 2.7 times longer to accomplish because everything is childproofed. The additional time gets deducted from your sleeping time. Combined with the fact that you now have three kids, you are down to sleeping an average of 43 minutes within a 24-hour period (52 minutes on weekends).

One Baby: Glass wine bottles rest on a funky rack mounted on the kitchen island, directly at a toddler’s eye level.

Three Kids: No bottles on display, for obvious reasons--if you buy a bottle of wine, it doesn’t hang around long enough to get put on a rack.

One Baby: Your dining room built-ins provide the perfect place to display your fragile wedding gifts.

Three Kids: Oh, that all got stored away a looooong time ago. You now understand why your mother unwrapped her china pieces like they were old friends when you cleaned out the attic during summer break from college. Currently, you have a large collection of pump and bottle parts on display where your porcelain cake stand used to be.

One Baby: You have a lovely wrought iron and glass-top coffee table.

Three Kids: Your coffee table is a train table. Sometimes you mix it up and switch in the dress-up clothes chest instead.

One Baby: If you need to use the bathroom, you walk through the door to the toilet.

Three Kids: Don’t waste anytime getting to your (one) bathroom because you’ll need to go through an obstacle course of step stools and potty seats before you make it to the toilet.

One Baby: You take uninterrupted showers in your (one) bathroom.

Three Kids: Bwahahahahaha.

One Baby: Cleaning is a chore to do while the baby naps, and/or it impedes on family time and “me-time” on the weekends.

Three Kids: You shoo your kids outside with Dad at 8:15 every Saturday morning so you can clean. Whatever it takes to get some time ALONE. On rainy days, you “accidentally” wax yourself into the far corner of your 9X7 kitchen and threaten everyone to within an inch of their lives if they walk on the wet floor. Then you turn to face the wall and drink your coffee in solitude while it dries.

One Baby: You put your baby’s soiled clothes in a personalized wicker hamper. You wash onesies, receiving blankets and such in separate loads so as to avoid contamination from other household dirt.

Three Kids: The laundry area is a total free-for-all. If you push through the mounds of clothes in various stages of laundering, you’ll manage to reach the washer and dryer. There is just too much of it to do separate loads, so spit-on sleep suits, applesauce-smeared t-shirts, grass-stained jeans, nursing bras and Dad’s underwear all go in together.

One Baby: Potential babysitters’ phone numbers are posted on the fridge.

Three Kids: No babysitters at the moment. You’re not convinced anyone else could handle this. To be honest, you’re not really sure how you do it yourselves.

One Baby: At the end of each “play session,” you tuck your baby’s toys away in the fabric-covered bins labeled “Toys” in the living room and his bedroom.

Three Kids: You wave the white flag as you reluctantly allow your five-year old to carry his plastic bucket of Legos into your bedroom which had, up until that point, remained the sole toy-free zone in the house. He will spend his “quiet time” in there. This is the sacrifice you make to keep him from waking nappers and disturbing you on the main level. Nobody needs quiet time more than Mom does.

Despite all this, it’s still kind of fun to live in your starter home after your family has expanded. There’s less square footage to clean, which is awesome, and a lot of times you can squeeze in some Facebook/email/blog-reading while the Hubs is outside with the kiddos during “housework” time. Your living room may be full of toys, but at least you can relax each night knowing that you don’t need to figure out how to pack for a move when a toddler would just find ways to unpack everything as you went. Best of all, you really can’t beat knowing that every day you, your husband, and your kids live surrounded by all the wonderful memories your family has created in the one place you all call home.

Irrational Things I Wish of My Husband

Who’s that girl craning her neck out the front door, eyes eagerly searching for the first glimpse of Dad coming home from work? Oh, that’s me, his wife, nursing the baby. The toddler and the 5 year-old usually keep watch from the living room window. 

This scene often follows one of the sweetest sounds of my day: my husband’s train going by, indicating that he’ll be home soon. I count the seconds. The worst text I can receive in the evening after hours of being home alone with our kids is, “Missed the train. I’ll be on the next one.” I hang my head in despair and manage to reply a weak “OK.” When Friday night rolls around, I breathe a huge sigh of relief knowing that for two whole days someone else will be in the foxhole with me.

I know I sound desperate. By that time of day, I am, and you would be, too. With a toddler and/or baby constantly attached to me, there’s always so much more to do than I can physically manage. When my husband gets home I find myself wanting him to do everything else. I know that he just had a long day, too, and I know it’s irrational, but I want him to be my magician, because I don’t see how we can get all the cleaning, bathing, nursing, story-reading, and tucking-in done without magic. Unfortunately, my superpowers typically run out sometime after naps end.

My wishes become increasingly irrational when we need to accomplish a specific set of tasks in a finite amount of time. For example, Sunday morning our goal was to get the two older ones and me out of the house to church. I don't know how other families at church do it. Even in families with little kids, each member is clean, well-groomed and wearing matching, wrinkle-free, seasonally appropriate outfits with proper shoes, and they probably get there on time (but I really don't know for sure because we are always late). When my son and I go (Dad usually stays home with the little ones), it's a miracle if I've dried my hair, and I only have makeup on if I hit the red light on the way. Despite my best efforts to have my son wear either khakis or a collared shirt (I don't push for both; that's asking too much), he usually ends up wearing some mismatched combination of running pants, a tee shirt, and light-up sneakers.  He frequently has cream cheese on his face and toothpaste on his shirt. Nine times out of ten, he needs a haircut. And it takes everything my husband and I have in us to get the two of us there in that condition.

"Whoever wrote the song 'Easy like Sunday Morning' didn't take his kids to church on a regular basis." -Tim Hawkins

Such was the case last Sunday, but that morning we were under heightened pressure because the goal was for me to bring both older kids. As the clock ticked down, my mind spun with all the things that needed to get done before we could go, so I started making irrational wishes…

Here are some of the irrational things I often wish my husband could do:

1. Read my mind. Sometimes I don't even have the mental capacity to formulate the requests for things I want him to do for me. Too many words, too many kids, too little time. It would be so much easier if he had telepathy.

2. Brush my teeth so I can do something else. But even if he could brush my teeth, I suppose that wouldn't help me much because I would still need to be with my teeth at the bathroom sink instead of doing something else, somewhere else.

3. Do everything MY way. And I want him to just know what that means.

4. Pump my breast milk. Okay. There are some things I need to just do myself…

Despite my irrational wishes, I count my blessings because my husband is awesome and does a ton for us—even if it's not always done how I would do it. Though his laundry-folding techniques boggle my mind (picture t-shirts folded inside out…), I know that when I relinquish control of the laundry-folding, he folds it, and that means he gives me 10 minutes of my life back. If there’s anything parenting has taught me, it’s that it requires a team effort, so I am very grateful for all he does—even if it means I have to turn my son’s shirt right-side out before I can put it on!

--------

So what about you? Do you ever find yourself wishing your partner, or kids, could do things that are just impossible? Share your irrational wishes in the comments section.

Clutter: Decoded

Walk into a house where little kids live and you’ll see clutter. Does that clutter signify laziness on the parents’ part? Of course not. If you learn to understand the Clutter Code, you’ll see the clutter for what it really is.

To illustrate the Clutter Code, here are 11 common examples of clutter in my house and the logical reasons behind them.

1. Random piles of children’s books in various hallways.

We’re promoting literacy.

2. Empty toilet paper rolls in the magazine basket in the bathroom.

Just waiting there for the day I decide to actually lead the boys through one of the

50 projects I have pinned on my “Toilet Paper Roll Crafts” Pinterest board.

3. Blue ice pack on the kitchen counter.

It’s not ours. It came home from preschool about 3 weeks ago and has been sitting there ever since so that my husband or I will “see it” and “bring it back.” The problem is that it poses no threat of physical harm to anyone. These days, if a piece of clutter has any hope of us dealing with it, it has to be dangerous.

4. Lego bricks placed on various bookshelves, on the mantle, on top of window frames, etc.

Those little suckers hurt when you step on them! And they’re choking hazards, too. But you can’t take the time to walk them back to the Lego bin when you’re chasing a toddler who just snatched your husband’s new eyeglasses off the desk. You’ve got to pick those Legos up and place them out of reach without breaking stride, or else you’re going to find yourself plunging out some spectacles from your toilet.

5. A Sharpie marker on the top shelf of the dining room hutch.

A lot of clutter in our house is high up. When confiscating something like a permanent marker, the only goal is to place it solidly out of reach.

6. Basting brush on the dining room table.

This one stands out to me when I see it because it’s not in the correct incorrect spot. It is supposed to be by the utensils drawer. That’s where we keep it so we can use it to pry open the awkwardly-placed safety latch that locks the drawer and prevents our toddler from removing and throwing life-threatening forks and butter knives. You need to pick your clutter battles: as the out-of-place basting brush posed no physical harm, I elected to ignore it and focus on sweeping up the peppercorns that the same toddler had dumped all over the dining room floor.

7. Stray peppercorns on the dining room floor.

I missed some.

8. Folded laundry on the love seat.

The laundry is washed and folded. What’s the issue?

9. Or, instead, empty laundry baskets but no laundry.

Those are there to remind me that I already put the laundry away. Go me!

10. Weird little blue rubber lizard thing on the stairs.

That’s my oldest son’s “special prize” that he earned at the doctor’s office when he rocked getting his shots. I don’t mind leaving that one out in the open. I hope that every time he sees it, he remembers how brave he was. I kind of like the reminder, too.

11. Random items that belong in the basement.

Waiting for the day that I go to the basement not carrying a laundry basket or a small child.

By now, you’re probably learning how to crack the Clutter Code. But to be honest, there’s a lot of clutter that I don’t really have a good excuse for. I have little desire to putter around putting stuff away at the end of the day when the kiddos are finally in bed and I have an opportunity to relax with my husband and recharge my batteries for the next day.

Or maybe I do have a good excuse, after all.

--------

What are the totally rational reasons for your clutter? Decode some of your clutter in the comments section.