JILLIAN JIGGS

it's my birthday and I'll make a mess if I want to

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JILLIAN JIGGS

by Phoebe Gilman

Jillian likes to dress up and play but never gets around to cleaning her room.

MOTHERHOOD

by Jillian Jiggs

Hey. I get it.

Organization is tough.

However, as the house manager, I take my job seriously. It is my security blanket, an anecdote to the chaos of being responsible for kids.

Plus, I just want things to be nice for them.

And I’m in charge! If I don’t take control of this insanity, who will?

The point is, it’s Capricorn season and,

in honor of my birthday today,

I'm going to share a method I've used to control a fraction of the madness of raising young children, and my hope is someone out there will benefit.

Who knows. I might also be fluffing my own ponytails.

Also, just don't even listen to me. I'm a maximalist. No matter what you see, think, or hear, my home gets chaotic and messy. Often, I stare at the mess my small family of 4 has created and blink bleary-eyed before giving up and collapsing in bed in a pile of cat hair.

My husband, an incredibly organized Virgo, is maybe the only reason we are all ever clean, dressed, and fed.

He has military blood in his blood.

You won't catch him playing before everything is in its right place and everything has a right place.

But not for me…

I’m inherently messy and chaotic, and it never bothers me until it’s clear it bothers everyone.

So it’s also important to note: plenty of times a day, I’ll see a destroyed kitchen, neglected piles of bile stained laundry, starving humans with no plan and no food in the fridge, choking hazards and murder-level danger to children everywhere — and I’ll think that I’m somehow making it worse

or that it’s my fault and that I’m a “terrible mother” and hopeless housekeeper/cook/wife/laundress/baker/maker/planner, whateverthefuck, and I’ll cry or collapse in a delirious panic.

My point is, I haven’t figured anything out.

But there is this one thing that really helps me…

Wait.

First, let me tell you one story so you understand I’m with you in the struggle. The struggle is: How is it even legal that I’m a mother in charge of humans?

So,

my ten-month-old Lisette is teething, right? Tonight, I was going on min 37 of rocking her in the chair after I gave her a dose of Tylenol, natural teething medicine, a back rub, a bottle of formula, a cold teething toy, a warm teething toy, both breasts of my milk, six books, and 3 made up stories when I lovingly, gently, laid her in her crib. She SCREAMED in my face like an angry baboon so loud that I snapped and said:

“I’m done with this,”

and left, slamming the nursery door.

Nice one, Jillian.

Lilyan flung out of bed and raged about how much she wanted GOLDFISH.

It was almost 8 p.m., and both children were screaming harmoniously. Would they summon the neighborhood coyotes? Is the cat inside?

After a few moments of their demonic choir, Lilyan beat the nursery door with both fists so hard I was sure she'd break through it like a psychotic Roger rabbit.

At this point, I should have gone back in, but instead, I headed downstairs to the… kitchen... for some reason.

…

Did I start on the two sinks full of dishes?

No.

That would’ve made some sense.

Did I leave the screaming children alone to do something else noble like clean up the table from our abandoned dinner that consisted of an overcooked frittata that had way too much dill so that somehow it tasted like a cold foot that no one ate but was (for some reason) smushed into every crack in the wood floor? Did I clean any of that?

No.

Did I feed the crying cat?

NO.

I went downstairs to eat leftovers of the stove with my hands.

EVEN THOUGH I HAD A FULL PLATE OF FOOD STILL SITTING AT THE TABLE!

I couldn’t even look at the mess at the table, the failed dinner, or the ants in the cracks in the wood enjoying the dill.

I just went to the stove and stood there and did something like eating.

…

To answer your question, yes, eventually, I stopped binging perfectly roasted, crunchy, salty potatoes with smeared caramels over leftover gelt

and got my shit together enough to return to the land of the deranged toothless lunatics whom I love so much.

I walked in the door and said, “How can I help you?”

Below me, I saw a defiant Lilyan, obviously egged on by her baby Lisette, with one hand inside the diaper pail about to be the Picasso of poop!

I’ve seen this before. You can’t give it any attention at all; otherwise, it’s a game, and it’s a whole thing.

I swooped in, quickly sailed the diaper pail out of the room with my foot, gathered the baby, sat back in the rocking chair, nursed the baby for comfort (weaning is going great, thanks for asking), and told Lilyan something brilliant like,

“Honey, I know it can be really uncomfortable to take a rest when I’m not tired. Sometimes, if that happens, I’ll tell myself a story.”

“Tell me a story.”

“About what?”

“About a family of plants.”

Ah, yes, the family of plants. It's the most ridiculous thing anyone could say to me now, but that's why I love being a mother.

It's all so fucking surreal and delightfully deranged.

Anyway, I told the girls a "story" about a family of plants that (for some reason) went swimming in the ocean and ate french fries for dinner.

By the time I finished the story, Lilyan had fallen asleep on the floor, and Lisette was dreaming before her head even hit the crib.

and I felt immediate relief.

Even though my child was sleeping with no blanket on a floor and my baby was technically "soothed to sleep" with my breast, a pacifier, a story, and a rock in a chair, which if you ask LITERALLY ANYONE is not "good."

SO

As you can see, I'm a mess. Just like everyone. A MESS.

My point is — if you're reading this — I want you to know I don't know what I'm doing, but I love trying to figure out how to do it better, so here is just one "hack" for you to roll your eyes at and profess it won't work for you ;)

And hey, if you're reading this and find self-celebratory domestic suggestions insufferable, just fucking skip this week's essay.

JUST SKIP IT.

So, what’s my one hack for how I keep our stuff / their shit under control?

My toddler wears a “uniform” to nursery school. The uniform is linked at the bottom of this weeks letter.

No one asked for us to do this for school. It is certainly not required. I made up her uniform based on creatives I admire who keep their choices to a minimum whenever possible.

Her uniform is:

• black t-shirts & black leggings

• white shirts & white leggings

Her uniforms are purchased in packs of 3-5 on Amazon and last on average 6 months.

It works to reduce stress in my house because:

1. Laundry is significantly easier — bleach the white and wash the black

2. The toddler does not debate with us about what she is wearing when we don’t have time to. It’s the uniform, and that’s the end of the conversation. That doesn’t mean she doesn’t protest sometimes! She does. Big emotions and feelings of frustration are okay and she always calms down :) She’s allowed to throw a fit. I can handle it. So can her dad.

3. Scott and I do not discuss her clothing with each other, and this saves us SO much energy!

4. The teachers appreciate it. We have stopped labeling her items all together because everyone knows exactly what belongs to her. Even her. When she needs a change at school she has many of the same backups and it’s easy and clear for everyone.

5. The toddler takes pride in styling herself. Her uniform is the base. She picks out her socks, her bows, and weather-dependent accessories like a coat, shoes, scarf, hat, etc. That’s a lot of choices for a 2 year old!

It’s all just so overwhelming, isn’t it? I’m 39 and I get overwhelmed in my own closet. Don’t you?

Help them! They will fight you. Help them anyway.

…

There are many reasons I send my toddler to school in a uniform.

But after school, and on the weekends, and whenever we don’t really have to be anywhere this kid has such an unbelievable wardrobe of “play clothes” OMG —

THEY DRESSED UP AS BUTTERFLIES

by Jillian Jiggs