Maybe It's Supposed To Be a Mess
By Sonya Spillmann
@sonyaspillmann
I stand with my weight on one foot, a mom-version of a flamingo at rest. I have to get my little ones ready for school, but my attention is on my to-do list. Lunches, laundry, edit those essays; our non-shedding dog does, in fact, shed, so vacuum the house—again; grab more milk, send that email. Exercise? Straighten up.
Yesterday’s magnetic tiles, blue, red, orange—the entire rainbow—lay scattered on the floor in the way it might look should a stained glass window shatter in your living room. Yes, I could have had my kids clean it up last night, but they were playing so nicely right up until it was time for bed. And then pajamas and brushing teeth took priority. (And I was too tired to care.)
In our house, used blankets lay abandoned like empty nests in a maple tree. Piles of books congregate on the couch, the bathroom floor, in beds—as if we host collegiate scholars of Big Nate, The Wimpy Kid, and Dog Man. Legos find their way under the soles of our feet. Stuffed animals, marble run connections, bey blade pieces—all the accoutrements of childhood—would easily prove in a court of law that four active children do, in fact, live in this home.
I’m a list writer. I use a paper planner to keep track of anything from doctors appointments to essay ideas, work commitments to actions I’ve already completed—for nothing but the sheer joy of putting a big fat line through them. Wake up. Drink coffee. Make a to-do list. But sometimes I’m too ambitious, thinking I, in the span of one 3-hour morning, can clean out my closet and the storage area and organize the piles of paperwork I have not touched in the last three months.
Viv, my 7-year-old, walks past me with my planner. She finished breakfast, placed her bowl and cup in the sink, and now she’s off to get ready for school. Enroute, with the raised nose disdain of a socialite eight times her age, she prances over the tiles on the floor and says, “It’s a mess in here.”
My eyes widen. “You made this mess!” I laugh. She freezes in place, arms out in walking motion, waiting to hear if I’ll ask her to clean it up. Which I do. “But get ready for school first,” I say with a small shake of my head. It always feels like there’s something more ‘of the moment’ vying for my attention.
***
My new planner, created for an academic year, arrived a few months ago, all crisp and pristine and empty. I took a deep breath and cracked the cover. How lovely, I thought. So much possibility.
I flipped to the back in the note section in my old planner, one that contained entries for the last half of 2020 and the beginning of 2021, and copied over a handful of important numbers and ideas I wanted to bring into this new year. Then, curious, I fanned through the weeks which chronicled the past twelve months.
Pages and pages and pages: blank.
We had very little to do most of 2020, but come on. For a woman who thinks nothing of writing ‘take a shower’ after she has showered, this feels suspect.
Then what I realize, what I remember, is how with so much presumed “time” on my hands last year, I didn’t just want to write down what we did during our days, simple as it was. I wanted to make my planner look pretty. I wanted to write neatly and use bullet points and color-code and—are there stickers for this kind of thing?
In my desire for clean and organized, when my life was anything but, I ended up hardly writing in it at all. (Could all that empty space account for why I missed three virtual doctor’s appointments and could never remember what day it was?)
I did find a few filled-out pages, weeks where I wrote quickly scribbled notes in pink marker or blue pen or my preferred black felt-tip. There were lists, daily agendas, check-box squares, arrows, and circles. It's obvious I didn’t care what these pages looked like. Objectively, they’re a mess.
But maybe, just maybe, it’s supposed to be a mess?
***
On a cold fall day, I take my two youngest kids to a doctor's appointment. We are told to expect a long wait, at least an hour, and I chide myself for not bringing the book I want to finish. I hand my phone over to my kids (after last year, I’m utterly unfazed by an hour of screen time) and pull out my new planner from my purse.
At the beginning of each month, two pages offer evaluative reflection questions. What went well?, it asks. What do you want to do differently?, it guides. Last year, I never once took the time to answer these questions—twelve months of flying by the seat of my pants. And even though this year feels different, I still haven’t filled them out. Until now.
What were a few memorable things from this month? I can’t remember what I had for lunch today let alone what I did these last four weeks. So I flip back and look. To my surprise, I don’t list two or three events, but six. My oldest went to her first dance; we celebrated two birthdays; I had surgery; we went camping in the rain.
What did you learn? I tap the pen and look down the hall. I have this compulsion to write the right thing. To already know what I’ve learned and spit it out, as if life is a math problem and I’d rather not use a scrap piece of paper to show anyone how I worked out my answer. But why? Who does this perfectionism help? Who really cares if my planner (or my house, or my heart) is a little bit messy, and I need some time to work through it all?
***
Years ago, within a few days of each other, I learn two acquaintances passed away after long fights with devastating illnesses. Both were younger than I was. In the same week, two relatives received unwelcomed diagnoses and I could barely breathe from how knotted up I felt inside from all this bad news.
A few days later, my family headed out for a couple of hours, but I chose to stay home. I could have done a thousand “productive” things, but instead I spent the entire time on the floor with my face on the rug, asking, Why God? Why? I cried for the grieving families, I asked for their comfort. I questioned God and told him how angry I was at all this sickness and death.
I wouldn’t call it wrestling, for all I did was end up laying flat on my back, exhausted, with dried tears crusted on the sides of my face. But somehow, miraculously, in the honest questioning and listening to the quiet, my heart untangled. It was as if acknowledging the mess of this life, lamenting it, and surrendering it offered me—if only until the next time I felt this way—a deep and stabilizing sense of peace.
***
Still waiting for our appointment, my children look up at me. I give them a ‘thumbs up’ like a question: You good? They both smile and nod. They return to the little screen; I to the planner’s questions.
What did I learn last month?
I resign myself to writing whatever comes to mind: I won’t feel like this (the bad/so tired/even the good) forever— things change; what worked for someone else’s life, doesn’t need to work for me; no one shares our same experience, it’s okay to make our own decisions as a family.
I answer every prompt. (What are you proud of? Who are you thankful for?) And the more I write, a calm I haven’t felt in ages drapes over me, as if the planner itself places a warm blanket on my shoulders and hands me a cup of my favorite cinnamon tea. By the time I’ve filled in both pages, I do not feel accomplished, in the way one builds a resume or adds letters behind their name. Instead, I feel comfort. I wrote nothing about how full the sink gets every day, or why there are so many shoes by our side door all the time. Instead I see my life for what it really is. Messy, yes. But also beautiful and sacred.
***
When it’s time for our appointment, I take back my phone and throw it in my purse. I close my planner, which, for what it’s worth, is a lovely sleek black.
Afterwards, even though it’s cold, I take the kids to get ice cream. We sit outside in wooden chairs painted turquoise. Each child has a small cup, a wooden spoon, and within minutes their happy faces are covered with melted chocolate. When they’re through, I will kneel down and say come here and wipe up their faces with the extra napkins I grabbed. And I will ask if they liked their treat, then we will drive back home, enjoying each other’s company.
Photo by Lottie Caiella.