Okay, so I’m usually on top of things. I’m that parent who packs the snacks, wipes the hands, triple-checks the stove. But this morning? This morning got away from me.
I’d just gotten off a video call with my manager, still wearing pajama bottoms under my blazer. I figured I had five golden minutes to reheat my coffee before the next chaos wave hit. My toddler, Eli, was playing quietly with a toy truck in the living room. Or so I thought.
I walked into the kitchen and—
I swear, my soul left my body.
There he was. My nearly-naked flour-coated child. Smiling like he’d just painted the Sistine Chapel. Except instead of art, it was flour. On the floor. The counters. The couch. Himself. I don’t even know how he opened that giant container. It was one of those screw-top storage jars I struggle with on a good day. But he’d figured it out. Of course he had.
And the best part? He looked up at me with those innocent little eyes, a wide grin plastered on his face, as if to say, “Look, mom! I made something amazing!”
I stood frozen in the doorway for what felt like an eternity. The coffee cup in my hand had long since gone cold, but it might as well have been on fire for how fast my blood was boiling. I didn’t even know where to start. Eli had flour all over him—his hair, his face, even his tiny little hands were completely coated in the powdery mess. And then, as if to complete the scene, he proudly held up his truck, which was now a dust-covered wreck.
I took a deep breath, counting to five in my head to avoid losing my temper. This was a moment of parenthood I hadn’t quite prepared for, but it was happening. Slowly, I walked over to him, trying to keep my cool.
“Eli, what did we say about flour?” I asked, kneeling down to his level.
He didn’t respond with words, just a soft giggle and a happy shake of his head. The innocent look on his face was almost too much to bear, but deep down, I knew he wasn’t doing it to be mischievous. He wasn’t trying to make my life harder. He was just being a curious toddler, doing what toddlers do—exploring the world through trial and error. The problem, of course, was that trial and error often left me cleaning up after him.
The flour container was lying on its side in the middle of the room, its contents spilled all over the floor, mixing with what looked like tiny handprints. The couch cushions were covered, too, as if Eli had decided that a dusting of flour on the furniture would help make everything “complete.” The room was a disaster zone. A small hurricane in the form of a toddler.
I sighed, already imagining how much time it would take to clean up. But instead of immediately jumping into the chaos of cleaning, I paused. I had to remind myself: this was temporary. Eli wasn’t being bad. He was being a kid, doing what kids do. As much as I wanted to scream, I couldn’t help but laugh. It was ridiculous, but it was also kind of hilarious. I snapped a quick picture with my phone. Maybe someday I’d show it to him when he was older—preferably after he’d grown out of his flour-fueled antics.
After a minute of taking it all in, I finally stood up, gathering myself. I had to get a grip. I couldn’t lose it. This wasn’t the end of the world. He was okay, and that’s what mattered. I could clean the mess. But first, I needed to address the elephant in the room. Or, rather, the flour-coated toddler in front of me.
“Eli, you’re going to help me clean this up, okay?” I said, trying to sound firm but still lighthearted.
His smile faded for just a moment, the realization of my words sinking in. He shook his head slightly, but I wasn’t going to let him get out of this one.
“We clean up together. You made the mess, so now we clean it up together. Deal?”
He sighed dramatically, then nodded.
“Deal,” he said, his tiny voice softening. He was starting to get it.
We spent the next hour working together—me wiping down surfaces, vacuuming up the flour dust, and Eli “helping” by pushing the vacuum cleaner nozzle around in his own way. Every few minutes, he’d look up at me, his face full of wonder, as if he was amazed that we could fix something that seemed so impossible. It wasn’t fast, and it wasn’t easy, but it was a reminder that sometimes, you just have to go with the flow. Life isn’t perfect. And more often than not, it’s messy.
The real twist came when Eli looked up at me, his face covered in a mix of flour and self-made frosting, and said the most unexpected thing:
“Mom, it’s okay. We can do it together.”
It hit me hard. He had no idea what was going on in my head—he wasn’t aware of the stress I felt from trying to juggle work, parenthood, and everything else in life. But there he was, a toddler, reminding me in the simplest way possible that life isn’t about avoiding the messes. It’s about being present and working through them.
I stopped for a moment, staring at him, realizing that while I had been trying to keep everything perfectly in place, Eli was teaching me something far more valuable. He wasn’t worried about the mess. He wasn’t concerned about how things would turn out. He just knew that whatever happened, we could handle it together.
By the time we were done, the living room was no longer a disaster zone. Sure, there were still a few stray bits of flour here and there, but it wasn’t anything I couldn’t fix later. What mattered was that we’d gotten through it together.
And as I looked at Eli, standing proudly next to me, his flour-covered hands raised in triumph, I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me. I was doing my best. I was juggling everything I could. And maybe that was enough. Maybe it didn’t have to be perfect.
I thought about the lesson in Eli’s words—we can do it together. Parenting isn’t about being perfect. It’s not about having everything under control all the time. It’s about showing up, making the best of each moment, and being willing to learn and grow together. The messes, the mistakes, and the chaos? They’re part of the journey. And at the end of the day, as long as you have the love and support of those around you, it’s all worth it.
I shared the picture of Eli and his flour-coated masterpiece on social media, captioning it, “Some days are messier than others, but we can do it together.” It wasn’t the polished, perfect image of family life that I’d once envisioned. But maybe that was the point.
As I hit “post,” I felt a sense of relief. Life, with all its messes and surprises, was unfolding exactly as it was meant to. I didn’t have to control everything. Sometimes, it’s enough just to show up and keep going, one step at a time.
And maybe, just maybe, my toddler knew something I had yet to fully grasp: the messes are part of the beauty of it all. So if you ever find yourself covered in flour or facing a mess you didn’t expect, remember this: it’s okay. You don’t have to have it all figured out. As long as you’ve got love and support, everything else can be cleaned up.
