You know that friend who got arrested once, spent the night in jail, and was like, “I am NEVER stepping out of line again?” Yeah… meanwhile, I’m over here like, “Sign me up—72-hour hold sounds like a spa weekend.”
Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. I do. I chose this chaos. But some days? Some days, I look at my husband and think, “How are we still alive?”
So today, my husband and I were doing what we love—tinkering with our beloved FJ Cruiser. We swapped out the O2 sensors, slapped on some ridiculously sexy red lug nuts (IYKYK), and we’re in the zone.
Enter: Thaddeus.
Oh, Thaddeus. My middle child. The one who turns every mundane task into an Olympic-level endurance event for my sanity.
He sees the impact drill and, of course, wants to help. Super cute, right? The first couple of times? Adorable. “Thanks for helping, buddy!”
By the second wheel, he’s ditched us entirely and is digging to China in the gravel driveway. So I pick up the drill and do the next wheel myself. Suddenly, from twenty feet away:
MELTDOWN.
“I WANTED TO DO THE RED ONES!!”
I’m standing there like, Seriously, dude? You were mining gravel a second ago.
And that sets off the barrage:
“Are you gonna let me do the next one?”
“Can I have a snack?”
“Can you make me lemonade?”
“What are we doing after this?”
“Can you watch me ride the scooter?”
“Can I have some of your soda?”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Are you making mac and cheese?”
“Can we sleep in the camper tonight?”
“What if a snake crawled into the camper??”
And on. And on. And on.
By the time dinner rolls around—homemade chicken fried rice, thank you very much—I tell the fam I’m running to the store. Quick trip. In and out.
Then Jazmyn goes, “Can I come with you?”
“No, baby.”
“Why not?”
“Because mommy needs a minute to herself.”
“But I want to come with you!”
“Baby girl, I love you—but if mommy doesn’t get five minutes alone, she’s going to completely unravel in aisle 7 next to the cereal.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why my wonderful, patient husband stays home with the kids… and I go to work.
So tell me—anyone else got a Thaddeus in their life? Or am I just raising the next reality TV star slash chaos coordinator?
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