Welcome to Camp Funk

messes

This little star loves flour

Sometimes it feels so tiring this cycle and rhythm that we find ourselves in.

Make the bed, mess the bed. Clean the kitchen, mess the kitchen. Put the clothes away, take them out – and in the case of  some of my stars– leave them on the floor. 

Make dinner, clean dinner. 

Drive to practice, pick up.

It's nice because I never have to fold laundry anymore.  All of my kiddos have been doing laundry since they were 3 and they don't complain.  IT's a great life skill.

My name is called dozens of times. I’m hungry. He looked at me wrong. He pinched me.  I need wiping. 

It's a never ending pile of dishes daily when your homeschooling but 2 kids always have dish duty each week. 
That's how we roll.

There are half drunk glasses of milk on the table too. No one will claim them by the end of the night. I’m standing there in the kitchen dumping what feels like money down the sink drain. I mean we go through 12-14 gallons a week!

We lose socks. We also sew holey socks and never wear matching!
 We break pens. Thanks to conferences, we have a never ending supply of pens to do schoolwork with.  No pencils in this school here!

We spill milk and sometimes use permanent marker when it was thought to be washable.

There are hand prints on the windows constantly. Even though someone washes them. And it’s always super noticeable when someone stops over and the sun attempts to stream through my now frosted looking glass but we really don't care and neither do our friends.  

They love the real us.

My car has crumbs in the back. There are a couple books, a pair of socks and a couple of water bottles. I’d probably have to brush the seat off for you if you road with me – even though Olivia just vacuumed it out.

And then life throws in our faces what we think are the curve balls.

The sick kids . The marriage stuff. 
The kids that don’t listen.
  The kids that make messes.
 The tired mom.
 The late bills.
 The overflowing washing machines or dryers that stop working. 
The stove that starts on fires. 
Constant medical bills that will always be here. 
Surgeries.
 The crayon that makes it’s way into the dryer and onto the shirt needed in an hour. 
Snowstorms. 
 Extra work. 
The kids being well just kids. A whole bunch of stuff that stops the moving in sync train of motherhood and derails us for a bit.

What if we weren’t being derailed? 
What if the point is that most of life is of trying to get from point a to b or get through the day but even though we know the target that the path will probably look like nothing we hoped for. Do you know why?

When there are kids in our houses and lives, our houses and lives will have imprints of kids.

Yes, that.

They live here. They add personality. 
They add chaos.

This is where we teach them. Where they learn about putting shoes by the door and hanging coats up. It’s where we give them the beauty of the opportunity to explore. It’s where they learn about keeping the room clean. And that markers have different strengths. And about respect. Or to wipe the sink down.

You know what? I will miss the hand prints on the window. Or the crazy leftovers in the bathroom and on the counters. Or the hand drawn art on the wall. Or the kindergartner with the bad dream that slept next to me and proceeded to kick me in the back all night long. love this.

I think maybe we just need to start seeing those things for what they are.

Imprints in the normal.

Motherhood is a whole bunch of improvising and hurry hurry and making things up and making dinner out of nothing and walking into rooms that once were cleaned only to hear look at our amazing creation and us pausing to not see the mess but to see them instead.

So tonight or today when you walk in the bathroom and see the splotches on your just cleaned mirror remember. Or when you find the sorted toys dumped in a pile. Or the markers with lids off. Or sketches on the walls. Or piles of tee shirts wadded in the corner. Wrappers under beds. Kids that say I don’t know whose that is and a whole bunch of doing the same thing over and over and over again.

Those are imprints.

There are messes

Of kids. And motherhood.

It’s a season. A journey.

And  it’s a short one.

remember that.