Oy. You guys.
Yesterday was rough. Like, reheating-my-coffee-more-than-I-can-count rough. Each time I reheated it, I added just a bit more instant coffee powder to try and salvage the experience. Coffee is a whole thing around here. The powder, the kettle, the mug. Honestly, I could write a full blog post just about that (and probably will).
It was the weekend. Let me say that again: it was the weekend. A day that should have been restful or at least semi-functional. And I, in a moment of pure delusion, decided that instead of ordering takeout like a normal, tired parent, I would go full domestic goddess.
Big mistake.
The morning started… normal-ish. I peeled myself from that magical, pre-dawn, deep sleep. The kind that hits just as your alarm goes off. I let the dog out so we wouldn’t get another noise complaint. The kids were somehow still asleep. So I started the kettle, popped an English muffin into the toaster oven, and sat down to do… life.
And then chaos.
I don’t know what exactly shifted the energy, but suddenly everything was spinning. The muffin got reheated three times. The coffee? Probably seven. I had on my housework sweatpants and big plans to clean, fold laundry, and maybe even scrub a corner or two. That didn’t happen.
Dinner was supposed to be low effort. Maybe cereal. Maybe frozen pizza. Maybe my husband would cook something from the meal kit if I gave him a well-timed glance. But no. I woke up on a weekend and chose effort.
Then, as if I had summoned it with my poor decisions, a friend texted me in the middle of her own parenting storm. I couldn’t focus. So I did what I always do when life is coming at me from all sides: I baked.
And I invited them to dinner.
Cue the freezer excavation. I found a giant frozen block of chicken thighs I had once planned to divide before freezing. I never did. Thank you, past me. Also found: ground beef, frozen tomatoes, and leftover brisket au jus. We were suddenly having a real meal.
Reheat the coffee.
Breathe.
Respond to a text. Read a news alert.
Chop some onions.
Blend tomatoes.
Punch down the dough.
Forget to drink water. Reheat the coffee again.
Checked that the kids were alive and had eaten something. Breakfast counts. They were thriving. Absolutely feral, but thriving. I may have forgotten to give them lunch. They didn’t seem concerned.
Back to the freezer. Wild blueberries (seriously, what made them wild?) surfaced from the depths. I had sugar and oats. Blueberry crisp was happening.
By 4 PM, with yet another cup of coffee, dinner was almost ready.
My laundry plans were buried under dishes. My sweatpants were still doing the heavy lifting. But I had cooked a full meal from scratch for a table of loud, joyful, messy people. And I didn’t regret it. Much.
The dishes are still in the sink. The dishwasher is broken. I do not wish to discuss this further.
This morning? I reheated yesterday’s English muffin (yes, still in the toaster oven 24 hours later), added some truly excellent butter, and poured my second cup of coffee. Still in pajamas. Sweatpants waiting for their second shift.
Maybe today I’ll clean something. Or maybe I’ll order takeout like a sensible human being.
If your day spirals too…
You’ll love my newest children’s book, Shame Is My Monster. It’s all about helping kids (and let’s be honest, us too) name that tricky inner voice and show it some compassion.
If parenting has you juggling feral children, broken appliances, and freezer mysteries, you are not alone.
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And if you’re too tired to mom from scratch, this NPR article is a gem: Why Doing Less for Your Kids Might Help Them More. Validation in five minutes or less.
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