A Mother is Permitted to Complain. Once in a while.

Maybe I'm doing something wrong. Or maybe it's them. I dunno.

The majority of conversation directed at my children these days is, "Tidy up this mess!"

Seriously, at least 80% of what I say to my children is about the state of their rooms, the toys littering the lounge floor, the crayons strewn across the passage.

Now, you tell me. Am I expecting too much from these kids? Am I hampering their fun? Aren't they supposed to make a mess, and play and enjoy their childhood? Am I supposed to quietly pick up after them, with a BIG smile on my face, content in the knowledge that my children have had the opportunity and the unlimited space to develop their sweet creative little selves?

But on the other hand, really? No. I mean REALLY? Am I REALLY supposed to have my spawn turn the sanctuary of my home space into a battle field - Every. Single. Day. Am I REALLY supposed to give up the idea of neat living, feng shui, open, tidy home spaces until, gee, I dunno, they move out? Is that how it's supposed to be? Am I fighting a losing battle here? Because it feels like that. Like a battle. At night I fall into bed crippled, exhausted, war-weary.

And it doesn't matter how hard I try, how well I've tidied their doll's house, how neatly the puzzle boxes have been stacked, tomorrow, without fail, the havoc and mayhem that seems to follow these two seemingly innocent young girls, will find a way to demolish my designs, upturn my tupperware, blow up my book cases. I am unequal to the power of childhood entropy.

And the solution? "Let it go," you say. "Roll with the punches." I hear your "never mind" and your "it's just a phase", and I can't, for the life of me, let it be. I can't accept that this phase is bigger than me. If I let this chaos consume me, I will have no control left. I will be like flotsam swept away in a tsunami of Polly Pockets and paper dolls.

I need a full time housekeeper. It's a matter of sanity.

Oh. And a full time gardener to pick up the dog poo. Thanks.