Parenting
“I can’t believe it! So cringeworthy!” my 9-year-old, Alex, exclaimed to his 6-year-old twin brothers, Max and Leo.
“What’s cringeworthy?” I asked, entering the cluttered playroom where they were immersed in their Lego construction.
“This!” Alex exclaimed, waving his arms dramatically to take in the entire room. “This playroom is filled with baby stuff!” The twins enthusiastically nodded in agreement. “These drawings are so silly! And they’re just taped to the walls,” Alex added disparagingly, pointing at the treasured creations made by him and his brothers over the years.
I stepped back for a better look at the space. The walls were adorned with crayon-drawn superheroes, watercolor dinosaurs from last summer, and heartfelt notes that read “Why We Love Mom” crafted for Mother’s Day. There were also leprechaun puppets made from paper bags, complete with yarn hair, and cheerful flowers showcasing the smiling faces of my twins attached to green pipe cleaner stems. A life-size outline of Alex from when he was just 4 also hung there, alongside the “All About Me” posters we carefully put together when they started kindergarten.
Alex had certainly witnessed the playrooms of other families, where moms with endless creativity showcase their children’s art in chic frames or stylish shadow boxes, creating stunning gallery walls.
When our playroom first came to be, I was still reeling from the chaos of new motherhood. My husband and I had just moved into our freshly built home with our 3-year-old and newborn twins, and I was still recovering from a C-section. My in-laws took charge of unpacking boxes, organizing our kitchen, and arranging furniture, while I was left exhausted, feeding or holding one baby or both. At that moment, I didn’t care about decor; my focus was solely on soothing cries and keeping my children content.
For the next three years, my husband and I were deep in the trenches of parenthood, and I considered it a successful day if I managed to squeeze in a bit of playtime between feeding, changing, and putting the kids down for naps. Did I sometimes glance around our home and envy the beautifully organized and tastefully decorated spaces of other moms? Absolutely. But instead of mustering the energy to transform my home into a masterpiece, I opted for a glass of wine, some mindless TV with my husband, and a solid night’s sleep by 10 p.m., to avoid feeling like a zombie when the kids woke me up at dawn.
As a result, our home remained mostly bare, with minimal decor—except for the toy room. A chaotic, messy, and yes, somewhat embarrassing space. I took delight in every scribble and splash of paint my kids contributed, no matter how unrefined. With a simple roll of Scotch tape, I began to embellish the walls, creating a patchwork of our family’s artistic history. This was my way of showing pride in their creativity, even if my own decor skills left much to be desired.
Now, as my kids are 9, 6, and 6, the situation has shifted. While the walls of our home still lack paint, the decorative touches have increased, and the kids hardly play in the toy room since we finished the basement. Yet, I still find myself taping up their school artwork to the walls, honoring their creations.
I squinted at the playroom, attempting to see it through the eyes of my children, who felt embarrassed by it. As I turned and looked again, I realized this room was a reflection of the kind of mother I am. I’m a mother who embraces imperfection, who juggles chaos, and who prioritizes nurturing over aesthetics. I kiss boo-boos, read bedtime stories, cheer at baseball games, and soothe worries. At the end of the day, instead of striving for a Pinterest-perfect home, I choose to recharge and connect with myself. After my kids’ needs are met, I take that last bit of energy to tape their artwork to the walls, letting them know I am proud of their creativity.
As I carefully peeled a rainbow fish off the wall, I knew I didn’t have the answers for transforming this room into something more refined, nor did I know if I had the energy to tackle it. The fish, flapping precariously, seemed to stare back at me with a crooked sequined eye, as if to say, “This might hurt you more than it hurts me.”
In the end, it’s about embracing the beautiful messiness of motherhood.