Do boys ever learn how to aim, or do I need to start charging a cleaning fee like hotels do?

“Housekeeper, Bank, and the Ghost of Milk-Gum Past”

There was a time when they needed me. Really needed me. For cuddles, for kisses on boo-boos, for bedtime stories with ridiculous voices. Now? Now I’m the unpaid housekeeper, on-call ATM, and emotional support punching bag for hormone-fueled eye rolls.

I spent this weekend spring cleaning my boys’ rooms and their bathroom. And by cleaning, I mean entering a war zone. At one point, I scraped something off my 11-year-old’s floor that I can only describe as a cursed concoction of dried milk and gum. I paused. I stared. I briefly considered burning the house down and starting over.

Then there’s the toilet. Always the toilet. What is it with boys and their inability to aim? I’ve never once missed a toilet seat in my life, yet somehow these tiny men treat it like a carnival game. Pee on the seat, poop in the bowl—unflushed, naturally. It’s like living with raccoons who have access to body spray and Wi-Fi.

And don’t even get me started on the laundry room. Or as I call it: the claustrophobic hell closet. It’s smaller than a porta potty, and I am not exaggerating. When we bought this house, I was nine months pregnant and fully convinced I would be pregnant for the rest of my life. At the time, all I cared about was having a laundry room upstairs near the bedrooms. I didn’t care that I could barely turn around in it. I was like, “At least I won’t be running up and down the stairs with baskets!” Like a damn fool.

Fast forward to now, and I’m elbow-deep in mystery stains and socks that have somehow merged into one super sock with no mate in sight. I have to back out of the room just to turn around. Doing laundry feels like a punishment for a crime I don’t remember committing.

And yet… I miss when they were little. I miss being more than the woman who restocks the snacks and magically makes their favorite hoodie reappear, clean and folded. I miss being needed—not just for basic survival, but for comfort, for presence.

But every once in a while, I still catch a glimpse. A tired head on my shoulder during a movie. A “thanks, Mom” that slips out with just enough sincerity to make me stop in my tracks. That’s when I remember—I’m still their home. Even if it smells like Axe body spray and forgotten towels.