Finding the balance between wanting help around the house and with the kids, and just doing everything myself so it’s done “the right way” is a constant struggle for me. I want my husband to be able to read my mind. He needs to get on that. Don’t you know by now that we have to get ready to go at least three hours before we are supposed to be ten minutes down the road? How do you not know how to fold a towel the right way yet? How have you not learned my toy organization system yet? Balls go in the ball bin. Little people go in the little people bin. No, bath toys go somewhere else. That’s a damn cow; it goes in the animal bin. Not that animal bin, the realistic animal bin.

It’s a struggle to make our house function with three little people, and one big husband constantly fucking it all up. I organize everything perfectly. I make everything accessible. I make everything logical. Diapers are in every room. Diaper cream? Check. Nail clippers? Check. Wipes? TRIPLE CHECK. Every time my mom comes to visit and I ask for a wipe she yells back “there are wipes everywhere!”  She mocks my system, but it’s true. I have them everywhere; in drawers, in cupboards, in bins, on shelves, in every closet. Wipes are the best tool a mother can have. Kids made a mess? Here’s a wipe. Diaper malfunction? Here’s a wipe. Spilled some coffee? Here’s a wipe. Weekly kitchen cleanup? Here’s a wipe. Sometimes, I have a good cry into wipes. They need to be everywhere.

Yet somehow, every time Sean is home from work and the kids are awake, even if it’s just five minutes, the wipes disappear. Sean, knowing that I have them in every room of the house, sometimes stashed in multiple spots in the same room, still takes wipes from one place and leaves them in another. Like the joker from Batman, HE JUST WANTS TO WATCH THE WORLD BURN.

The weekends are the worst. Monday’s I spend the entire morning trying to re-organize the mess he created. Every Monday I have to find the remotes that are lost somewhere in the house. Monday-Friday they are always on the end table, but my husband comes home and the remotes go off somewhere to hide. Every Monday I have to restock my stashes. I have to take the five containers of wipes out of kitchen (because that’s the logical place he thought to put them) and return them to their rightful home. I’ll never understand.

I find myself constantly refolding laundry, reloading the dishwasher, reorganizing the bottle drying rack. I know he means well, but dude just do it my way. It’s obviously better. To top it all off, he doesn’t like bins. Other than wipes, bins are every mother’s best friend. If Sean would allow it, the only furniture I would have in the house would be cube-bin organizers. Let’s face it, even though he says “no” … I’m slowly, room by room doing it anyway. On the outside, bins are clean, organized. On the inside, it doesn’t matter. I literally throw shit into them. It takes me about three minutes to clean my house if some asshole decides to “surprise visit” a mom with three kids under four. Don’t do that, it’s not nice.  I have bins for shoes, hats, diapers, socks, tutu’s, scarves, wraps, toys, books, accessories, Barbie’s… I wish I had a bin I could shove my husband into.

See bin organizers are easy to build, and relatively cheap. Sean leaves for work in the morning and comes home to more bins. I haven’t decided yet if he really doesn’t notice, or it’s so painful that he chooses to ignore it. Whichever it is, his silence is healthy for our marriage.

I know it’s supposed to be sweet that he wants to help. I should look at him all swoon when I come out of the bedroom after putting Livie down for the night and he has picked up the living room. But it doesn’t work like that. I stare at the ceiling in bed at night, itching at my neck like a junkie just thinking about how the realistic farm animals are mixed in with Barbie and her friends. Oh how those animals are probably messing up her hair. What if Ken leaves her for another blonde who doesn’t sleep with the pigs…  I stress about that first diaper change tomorrow when everyone is screaming and there are NO WIPES.

It’s time to bin this bitch up, top it off with some wipes. Eventually I will have created enough storage that wipes will always be within arms reach. Yeah, they’re right there, in that cube.

That’s how you successfully parent.

See, it really looks like I have my shit together.

Even if he moves my wipes, he’s still the best. Don’t be mad, but I bought more bins.
#athomewithjulie #coffeeconfessions #bins #babywipes #organization #ivegotitalltogether #healthymarriage 

Song of the day: 😂

3 Replies to “There’s a wipe for that.”

  1. OMG! I laughed all the way through this! I am still trying to prove to my husband that our dishwasher has never had a scrubbing mechanism that comes out 3 days after he puts the egg yolk or pizza cheese encrusted plate in for our bi-weekly? Wash. There are only 2 of us!

    Our second home was smaller than our first and never big enough for 4 of us with no basement or attic. But my husband fell in love with the yard and dug the heels in. Consequently, I am the master of dual purpose! There aren’t many spots or pieces of furniture, or decorative items that are not serving another, often hidden, purpose!

    Thanks for the amusing blog!

    Liked by 1 person

  2. “Oh how those animals are probably messing up her hair. What if Ken leaves her for another blonde who doesn’t sleep with the pigs…”. Oh this is my favorite part! !!!


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