Grumpy Gremlin Energy

Have you ever been so cranky that you don’t even want to be around yourself? Yeah. That’s me today. Peak grump. Certified menace to society.

The kids are officially on punishment for touching my stuff. Last night, we sent them upstairs to brush their teeth. Fifteen minutes later—it’s suspiciously quiet. Anyone with kids knows that silence is the soundtrack of disaster.

I head upstairs and find the bathroom looking like a crime scene. My makeup is everywhere. Thaddeus looks like a knockoff circus clown, and Jazmyn… honestly? Not bad. She might have a future. Meanwhile, I’m standing there trying to decide if I should laugh, cry, or just move out.

Cue yelling, crying, and some aggressive toothbrushing. Everyone’s mad, no one’s clean, and bedtime can’t come fast enough.

Later, when Shon and I finally head upstairs, he goes to turn off the light the kids left on in the spare room. “They were messing with your art supplies,” he says. Of course they were. No covers on the markers. Perfect. So he declares, “No electronics tomorrow.”

Which—let’s be honest—feels more like my punishment. Sunday is the one day I let screen time slide so we can actually get stuff done around the house. But fine. Whatever.

Fast forward to this morning: I’m crabby, sick, and running on fumes. Shon’s downstairs tinkering with the chainsaw (because why not mix exhaustion and power tools), and I’m at the kitchen table, staring into my coffee like it owes me money.

I want food but have no idea what. All I know is whatever it is, we don’t have it. I briefly consider calling my mom and asking her to go to Costco to get me that chicken taco corn dip deliciousness—but I don’t. Mostly because she’d actually do it, and I’m trying to at least pretend to be an adult. (Love you, Mom.)

Then, from the basement, I hear: “MEDIC!”

Instant panic. Chainsaw + “medic” = I’m picturing missing fingers. I sprint over—and there’s Shon, holding his hand wrapped in a blood-red towel. Turns out he stabbed himself with a screwdriver. Not exactly a chainsaw tragedy.

He’s laughing, I’m laughing, and I tell him, “Unless you’re actively bleeding out, don’t call for a medic. Rub some dirt in it and get back to work.”

And just like that, the mood lifted. Nothing like a little self-inflicted injury to reset your day.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.