The Cuckoo Mama

My home is akin to a war zone. It is completely and utterly covered, from top to bottom, in debris from whatever nuclear fallout exploded above us. Everywhere I look is covered with mayhem, the fragments of a former life peeking through patiently, waiting to be rediscovered and restored to former glory.

Well that ain’t going to happen any time soon.

I’ve never been a particularly tidy person. Orderly definitely wouldn’t be one of those three important words I’d use to describe myself, although it’s possible it’s made an appearance in a job interview somewhere along the line. I have however, always been incredibly good at hiding mess. I like to think of it as channelling my inner creativity. Outwardly each room would look passable, tidy even, someone with low standards might say, what do you mean you live in a state of disarray? They’d question. This is perfectly acceptable. Why, thank you, I’d smile, I obviously just have high standards, or, I’d think to myself smugly, you haven’t seen the cupboard of doom. Mwahahahaha! I kind of felt an evil laugh was required at this point.

Oh the fated cupboard of doom. That hidden away place, usually under the stairs, where everything, and I mean everything, goes. It’s shoved in, with no order, and squeezed into place as the entrance, to this land of terror, is pushed, oh so slowly shut, and I watch, with bated breath, for up to 60 seconds, checking that the portal doesn’t spring back open again and spew general crap out all across the room.

But now, there’s no where to hide.

Oh I don’t mean the cupboard is full, I mean there’s not much room left but hey, I’m space creative remember! What I do mean is that the stuff that’s out, apparently, needs to be out, it cannot be “tidied” away. I therefore find myself entering the danger zone, each evening, trying to sort through the chaos, just a little bit, only to be faced with all sorts of terrifying obstacles. There are toot toot car grenades, which explode, with a deafening hullabaloo, upon impact, oh the horror when just one car crashes, bonnet first, in to a whole tub of them, it’s enough to cause nightmares. If anyone ever buys your child a toot toot car, know THEY HATE YOU.

There are lego landmines which detonate in a blast of pain under bare feet and cause the wounded to lose footing and end up in a pile of sticky jam, of dubious origin. Dirty laundry bullets are strewn across the kitchen, mapping just exactly where a toddler has “helped” with the washing. Traps, in the form of flat duplo cars, and anything else with wheels of death for that matter, add to the uncertainty, and have you ever felt a water bead pop under your foot? Well have you ever really lived then? Add to this the dog’s guerrilla warfare tactics of ambushing me with half chewed bones, squeaky, slobbery toys and water bowls. Don’t get me started on water bowls. And well, I think it might just be time to wave that white flag and concede defeat.

Now I do try and I do have ideas. I look around, I sigh, I decide that something, yes something, needs to be done. I then end up buying more storage baskets to add to my current, and rather large, collection of storage boxes, then find myself in rather a predicament when I don’t know what to do with the perfectly acceptable storage boxes I already have, thus ending up with more clutter and less space in the afore-mentioned CofD, a quick white lie to my husband, “I definitely did not buy additional storage boxes” and still no solution. You get the picture?

We even moved, only a year ago, because we ran out of space in our old house, and as Sam’s second birthday is fast approaching, I’m fearful we’re going to have to put the house on the market, again, just to find room for the next wave of junk incredibly important developmental toddler toys. In the meantime, I’ll keep ordering more boxes and telling myself it’s not the battles that count but the winning of the war. I feel like I should have a moustache to twiddle here as I finalise my cunning plan. Ooh and a cane. I definitely need a cane to add to a box of stuff one day. Plan sorted then, grow moustache, buy more boxes and cane.

In all honesty I love my home, I really do. In my own way I’m proud of the craziness that it encapsulates, it’s a true insight in to real, every day, happy, bonkers family life, with a toddler and a pup and, to tell you the truth; it’s my happy place and I wouldn’t change it for the world. Well, possibly… because despite already being thirty-something, I’m still dreaming of my grown-up house!

If you’re after some better advice, other than simply move house, as to what to do with your toys, then I’d suggest having a look here…