If you’ve ever felt like you’re the only one in your house who cares about clean, welcome—you’ve found your people. This series, Messy Monday -> Makeover Monday , is my honest (and sometimes hilarious) take on life with kids, chaos, and the never-ending battle against mess. I hope it makes you feel a little less alone in the battle to have a clean house. Over ten posts, I’ve shared everything from the magic of closets (or lack thereof), the myth of a sacred bedroom, the weeke

With text-to-talk, I can be in the car with my littles asleep in the backseat, on the way to pick someone up, or even taking a quick five-minute break from work, and just start dictating a draft.

Breaking the cycle isn’t about cleaning less or giving up—it’s about being strategic, realistic, and a little playful. It’s about knowing that a few organized corners, a weekend chore plan (even if imperfect), and a healthy dose of humor go a lot further than trying to achieve Pinterest perfection.

I tried a big mom-hug strategy, telling him how much I appreciated his help that day and that he would enjoy the steak once we got there. Teenager mode activated, but the hug seemed to melt some of the hard edges.

Last night was really wholesome. We went to King’s Buffet for my son’s very belated birthday dinner. Everybody ate way too much, but it was so much fun. My mother-in-law and my sister-in-law came along, and we just hung out, enjoyed good food, and spent time together. After dinner, we headed home in our Ford Transit. It was just my husband, me, and the six kids, so eight people total. Our seven-seater Sienna is a little cramped for that many people, but the kids really enjoy

Sometimes the job itself is worth more than the pay.

As parents we often just have to do the best we can.

It’s not passive-aggressive. It’s self-preservation. A little moment of freedom in the constant battle against clutter. I’m not saying it solves the problem—obviously, it doesn’t. But it’s a reminder that I don’t have to be perfect, that a little imperfection won’t ruin our home, and that sometimes, letting go a bit actually helps me keep my sanity.

Is it a masterpiece or a flop? I may never known because I'm FIA - Frozen In Action

My 2 year old has more freedom than my five year old

Sometimes, in a house with eight people, six kids, and a whirlwind of daily chaos, you have to adjust your expectations. You can’t have a spotless home all the time—it’s just not realistic. But what you can have is one small corner of peace. One tiny slice of calm that belongs to you.

At some point, I realized: it’s not a lack of storage. It’s the sheer volume of stuff. Eight people generate an impossible amount of things, and while I can control my own little corner, I can’t control everything that walks through the door—or gets carried in by my kids, dog, or Amazon deliveries.

Company’s coming in 15 minutes.” Suddenly, your house—full of toys, school papers, laundry, and random crumbs—is a ticking time bomb, and somehow it has to transform into something resembling a home people actually want to be in. Cue the 15-minute fake clean. This is an art form. A combination of ninja-level shoving, strategic placement, and a healthy dose of hope.

Mornings are chaos with six kids to get ready and out the door. Then it’s on to my job, my photography work, cooking, and trying to wrangle a house that constantly feels one step away from being featured on a “before” episode of a cleaning show. By the time the day is done, I’ve squeezed in all the “work work” and the “home work,” and what’s left? Maybe thirty minutes of TV before bed, if I’m lucky.

Cue flashbacks to my last interview, where my 8-year-old walked in wearing nothing but underwear—even though the door was locked. So yes, this time, I was determined to get the background situation under control.

Even my husband, who wouldn’t recognize flirting if it walked up and smacked him in the back of the head, noticed. He leaned over and said, “Yeah, she’s definitely flirting.”

But here’s the reality: Marie Kondo doesn’t live in a house with six kids. She doesn’t deal with the endless influx of toys, papers, clothes, random sports equipment, and “I’ll just put this here for now” items that magically multiply overnight. She doesn’t have a kid who hides their art project in the pantry, crams wrappers behind the washing machine, or sticks Legos into the laundry basket.

Her teacher, a wise woman who had also taught my older son, told me: “I think Emily matured so much through her experience that she’s having trouble relating to the other kids. They’re still doing ‘kid stuff,’ and she’s just… beyond that.”

So instead of waiting until I have all the shoes lined up perfectly, I’m just grabbing the toddler’s and throwing them in with the next load. Because honestly? I’ll be doing 15 loads of laundry this week anyway. At least two of them will be towels and jeans—the perfect “shoe loads.”

And apparently, my subconscious thought I was the teenager. Because I dreamed I was back in high school, flirting with boys. I woke up with that same old swirl of feelings: nervousness, the rush of excitement, the cautiousness of “I like him but what if he doesn’t like me back?”, all of it. I could practically feel myself blushing in my sleep.