Clutter

I am not a neat freak. Of course, if you ask my husband or sitter, you'll hear differently, and I know that it's all relative anyway. Truly, however, I am not obsessed with cleanliness or tidiness. And thank goodness for that, or I would have been prescribed some strong sedatives by now.

Living with my husband, the King of The Slobs, has been excellent preparation for my life with baby. I had already learned to watch calmly as an entire week's worth of dirty socks collected under the sofa, along with already-read sports magazines. I had become accustomed to the rule that one must never pick up any bottled items in the refrigerator by the top, because it is probably not screwed on all the way. Rather than continuing the struggle to manage his more-than-the-average-man's-amount of laundry, I placed in our closet two cardboard storage boxes into which I dump his clean, unfolded clothes. I have learned that there are two options for the toilet seat -- up and dry, or down and wet. Don't get me started.

Read more about the joys of Motherhood. Other "Now I Know" columns include:

Introduction

Distraction

Equal Parenting

Grandparents

Memories

Pain

Photographs

Sacrifice

Preparation
Pride
Sentimentality

Along comes my son, and with him the accouterment of all doted-upon grandchildren. My son has seven rubber duckies for his bath. He also has fourteen pairs of overalls.

We knew that kids came with lots of stuff. I must admit that we were a little surprised, albeit pleasantly, to find that our son, who is grandchild number four on my side and number three on his father's, is as special to our families as he is to us. We figured that the grandparents, aunts, and uncles were probably over the typical buying frenzies that accompany the birth of children. Apparently, the long wait for ours was felt very strongly by all. So, Toby gets a lot of stuff. The question is, and always will be, where do we put it all?

On top of where to put it all is the question of cleanliness. Having worked in large settings filled with children, many of whom had health problems, I was prepared to swab everything possible with the old bleach-water solution. I think that's happened a couple of times in my house. If it can go in the washing machine, it may end up there every other month or so. A few times I actually rewashed the pots, pans, and lids with which my son makes music. Now they just go back in the cupboard, straight from the floor. Did you know that children don't get hairballs from the dust bunnies that they ingest?

Right now in my large combination living/dining area, there are a large and bouncy red ball, a smaller yellow whiffle ball, a wooden push toy with beads and bells, a toy piano, a toy boombox, a nasty stuffed red bear from a carnival win, two board books, three paper books, a talking frog whose computer chip skips, a small basketball hoop, a plastic hammer with "workbench," a xylophone, giant snap-together building blocks, smaller wooden blocks, a toy musical clock, a "dial-an-animal" with the pull-string permanently jammed, and a small box holding even more assorted small things. That's just in my living room.

I used to think that a week's worth of mail piled on the dining table was a mess. Then my husband taught me the true meaning of unclean. Now, as my son works at bringing the message home to me even more, I am searching for the Zen of it all. What kind of karma is this? How does one flow through the constant crunching of tiny plastic animals underfoot?

I am learning that on the days when I am too carried away with my son's laughter and antics to even notice the clutter, dust, and dirt, I am the best mother I can be.

"Now I Know" first appeared on Moms Online, part of the Oxygen Media network (http://oxygen.com), and is reprinted with permission.