Before we had kids, I was always disgusted by messy houses of parents with little kids. I couldn't stand the sticky tables, the Cheerio-filled-couch, the scattered toys, and the boogery and spitty clothes. One of the fears I had when we first learned we were pregnant with Bel was that our house would end up like that. I was relieved when our house didn't turn out that way even when she was two years old. I thought we had beat it.
But here we are two years and one more kid later. I walk through my house and am appalled at the mess. It doesn't matter how often we clean and pick up. It's always disgusting in here. Just last night Andrew cleaned the kitchen and dining rooms, and I picked up the living room. By seven o'clock this morning all the rooms were nasty again. Andrew found some sort of food globule that Frank grabbed from the floor and was throwing around. I find myself crawling around the floor under the kitchen table at least twice a day picking up bits of the last meal mushed in with play-doh bits.
The only comfort I can find is looking to parents of older children. Their houses are clean. There is hope that we'll be able to get ours clean again someday, too. Until then it's sticky tables and mystery food globules.