There are wet footprints all over my kitchen floor.
Why? It’s sprinkler season, y’all.
Sprinkler Season and “Hitting the Tramp”
Earlier this month it was still a little too chilly for the pool, but my wild girls were all about that sprinkler life. A trampoline sprinkler, to be specific. My sweet friend got it for little boo’s birthday, and they absolutely love it. Their new favorite catchphrase?
“I’m gonna hit the tramp.”
It cracks me up every time—they have no idea the context of the word, and I’m not about to tell them. It’s too cute.
The tramp is new. The sprinkler is newer. Any glimmer of warmth, and they were swapping outfits for bathing suits, ready to hit the tramp. On a cooler windy day, they played until they were shivering, then warmed up with a hot bath. I asked why they stayed out so long if they were cold, and they looked at me like I was the crazy one.
“Because it’s fun… duh.”
Messy Joy, Leaking All Over My Kitchen Floor
I get so much joy watching them through the kitchen window. Their laughter and chaos are contagious—much like those little wet footprints that end up everywhere. Even in my bedroom. Places they have no reason to be. But instead of freaking out over the mess, I find myself smiling.
They’re literally leaking joy all over the house.
And it got me thinking: When’s the last time I made a mess in the name of joy?
I want to give my girls the gift of a childhood filled with messy joy. But what about me? What am I giving myself?
So… What About My Joy?
Let’s be honest: When I’m off the mom-clock and have a rare evening to myself, my “joy” usually looks like bingeing something on Netflix (Sirens was fire), binge-reading A Court of Thorns and Roses (currently on book 3!), or yes, occasionally binge-drinking when the kids are gone for the night.
Basically… whatever’s easiest. But lately, I’ve been wondering: Is that really joy?
When You’re Good at Self-Care But Bad at Play
I’m good at the responsible stuff. Daily devotional? Yes. Vitamins? Every night. Water intake? I’m basically part Stanley Cup. Veggies, fruits, showers—I’ve got the basics covered. Therapy? Check. I’m good at doing what I have to do to keep my body and brain going.
But joy? Actual, deep soul joy? I’m not great at making space for that on a regular basis.
Which is wild, right? To not be good at doing the things you love?
I love reading. It’s my favorite. But unless everything else is done (the dishes, the laundry, the kids in bed) I won’t let myself curl up with a book just for me. I wait until the end of the day when there’s nothing left on my priority list. The problem? That list never really ends.
The girls are 8 and almost 10 now. They’re independent, because we raised them that way—especially during the crazy seasons when my husband was working shift after shift, and I was hanging on by a thread in my teaching job (Curious about how we got our kids on the same team? Check out conflict resolution ideas).
Messy Joy Over Martyrdom
In those years, I had to steal moments for myself. And I think I accidentally turned that survival tactic into a habit: putting myself last, even when I don’t have to anymore.
It’s not a great habit. It feels noble, like Top Mom Energy, but it’s not sustainable. It flirts with martyrdom. And martyrdom? That’s just burnout dressed up in a gold star sticker and I don’t need anymore gold stars.
Somewhere Along the Way, We Forgot to Play
I’ve written about realistic self-care for moms before. I’m a believer. But this is different. This is about the habit of doing what brings me joy. The kind of joy that’s intentional and silly and maybe even a little bit inconvenient.
Because somewhere along the way to adulthood, we lose our ability to play.
The National Institute for Play (yes, that’s a real thing) says:
“If the person doing it is engaged and feeling content with the challenge, then it is play; if the person is feeling bored, irritated, or burdened by the task, then it is not play.”
Cooking Can Be Fun… If No One’s Hangry
So much of my day is rooted in responsibility. I enjoy cooking, but not when I’m racing against the clock to get dinner on the table by 5:30 so everyone can eat before we fly out the door. Then it feels like a chore.
Cooking can be play. Like when I’m making a themed meal for friends or trying out a new recipe just because. I want more of that kind of cooking.
I want more joy that doesn’t come at the bottom of the list.
Thrift Stores, “Concussions”, and Messy Joy
I want more thrift store treasure hunts with my best friend, like the one we did recently. She had a whole strategy, and I was just along for the ride, but something about sifting through discarded things and imagining what they could become again? That was good for my soul.
Even my youngest gets it. In a time honored before-school-clothing-debate she told me it was fine to wear wedge sandals to recess because she was only playing “Concussion” with her friend Noa.
Naturally, I asked, “What’s Concussion?”
She replied, without hesitation, “It’s where I throw a ball at Noa, and she lets it hit her. Then she falls down and yells ‘Concussion.’”
DUH, MOM.
That’s what play looks like for them. It makes no sense, and it doesn’t have to. It’s not about the outcome. It’s about the joy, the challenge and the freedom to create something ridiculous just because it’s fun.
When I get bored or overwhelmed, I don’t make up a new game. I shut down. I reach for my phone or Netflix or something easy. And there’s nothing wrong with those things—unless they’re all I ever reach for.
Relearning the Art of Messy Joy
I’m exploring what joy looks like for me as a mom in midlife. What makes me laugh, feel challenged, and come alive in the moment?
It might look like dancing in the kitchen. Maybe it is writing just for the hell of it. It might even look like jumping on the trampoline with my kids this summer..
Messy, messy joy.
It’s not always convenient. It might take some schedule shuffling. But it’s worth it.
What messy joy are you making room for this summer?
Not the quick dopamine hits.
Not the scrolling or the sipping.
The outfit-change kind of joy.
The wet-footprints-on-your-floor kind of joy.
The kind that leaves a mess—because it was too fun to worry about cleaning up.
Leave a Reply