The Mess I Miss: On mommy cars, spotless leather seats, and the clutter that feels like home

When I was about eight months pregnant with my first child, I happily traded in my beautiful convertible sports car for my very first mommy car. I didn’t hesitate. I didn’t grieve it. I was thrilled. A new chapter was beginning, and that wagon, the first of many, was the chariot of that chapter.

Over the years, wagons gave way to minivans, and minivans gave way to SUVs, and those gave way to other SUVs. Each one carried us on weekend road trips and family adventures. Each one collected its own archaeology of family life: lunch boxes wedged under the seat, lacrosse sticks poking out from the trunk, jackets balled up in the corners, extra shoes that seemed to multiply on their own. And each time I traded one in, I felt a twinge of something. Sadness, maybe. Nostalgia. Like I was trading in a piece of the story along with the car.

The mess was always there. I complained about it constantly. I swore every fall that this would be the year I kept the car clean. It never was.

This past winter, my car broke down on a bitterly cold night. My husband told me to get rid of it. I obeyed, something I do not do often, and bought my first non-mommy car in twenty-five years. A beautiful, sporty SUV. Soft leather seats. A pleasure to drive. Grown-up and sleek and entirely, perfectly spotless.

With my son away at college, it was always just me in the car. And it stayed clean. Day after day, week after week. No jackets. No stray sneakers. No crumpled receipts from Dunkin’ Donuts.

I should have loved it. And part of me did. But sometimes I would get in after work, look around at that spotless interior, and feel an unexpected wave of sadness wash over me. The car was beautiful. It was also quiet in a way that felt wrong.

My son moved back from school a week ago. He is a guy, so of course, the first thing he wanted to do was drive the sporty new car, and of course, I let him.

He drove it for about a week. When he left for work one morning, he left my car behind. I went grocery shopping after work that day, and when I went to put the bags in the trunk, I found his golf shoes and clubs. When I opened the back door, there was his jacket, his hat, and a pair of sneakers.

I stood there in that parking lot and laughed out loud.

I suddenly felt at home. All was well in the world.

Here is what I know now that I didn’t fully appreciate when I was in the middle of it: the mess was never the problem. The mess was the point. Every jacket on the back seat was evidence that a kid had been there. Every misplaced sneaker was proof that the car was lived in, that life was happening, that we were all somewhere together in it.

We spend so much of parenthood wishing for order. A clean house, a clean car, five minutes of quiet. And then one day, you get all of it, and you realize the quiet isn’t restful at all. It’s just empty.

I miss the craziness of raising kids, mess and all. I miss it in the way you can only miss something once it’s already gone, with a fullness that surprises you, that lands differently than you expected.

So, if you are in the thick of it right now, if your car looks like a locker room and you cannot find a single inch of clean floor mat, I want you to know something: you are going to miss this. Not in a sentimental, greeting-card kind of way. In a real, bone-deep, catch-you-off-guard-in-a-parking-lot kind of way.

Leave the mess. Or at least, let yourself love it a little while it’s still there.

— Michele