Author: bananafudgenut

There are moments in adulthood when you realize you’re not actually “winging it”—you’re just spiritually improvising with whatever the universe tosses your way. Sometimes that’s wisdom. Sometimes that’s a sump pump. And sometimes, apparently, it’s a cherry red cast iron Dutch oven.

Let me set the scene.

We had just survived some of the worst flooding our house had ever seen. The kind of flooding where you stand in your basement, stare at the rising water, and whisper to yourself, “I am a strong independent woman who does what she wants…but also, what the actual hell.”

The sump pump failed—thankfully after the water had already done its dramatic entrance and exit. So we did the responsible adult thing: we ordered a new sump pump from Walmart and had it shipped right to the house. Crisis averted. Future secured. Gold star for us.

The box arrived. We brought it inside. We carried it to the basement. And then—because life is busy and children exist and time is a flat circle—we said the most dangerous sentence in the English language:

“We’ll get to that next weekend.”

Fast forward six months.

It’s been raining. A lot. I have a lake in my driveway. The kind of lake that makes you consider naming it and charging admission. The basement is still dry…for now. And suddenly, like a bolt of adulting lightning, it hits us:

We should install that sump pump.

So we go downstairs. We open the box. And inside is…

A cherry red cast iron Dutch oven.
In a giant box.
Not even close to a sump pump.
Not even in the same category of object.

What. The actual. Fuck.

There I am, standing in my basement, holding cookware while mentally preparing for potential indoor water features. The universe is laughing. Walmart is somewhere shrugging. And I’m just trying to figure out how this became my life.

But here’s the moral, friends. The lesson. The wisdom from the floodplain:

Open your boxes when they arrive.
Not six months later.
Not “next weekend.”
Not “when it starts raining again.”
Immediately.
Because I doubt the thing you desperately need to save your basement is actually a Dutch oven in disguise.

And honestly? This feels like a metaphor for my entire existence.

There are many moments in motherhood that test your patience—bedtime negotiations, the mysterious disappearance of matching socks, the sudden meltdown because someone’s banana “peeled wrong.” But nothing, nothing, prepares you for the emotional gauntlet of playing video games with a 4-year-old and a 7-year-old.

Forget spa days and meditation apps. If you want to know your true spiritual strength, hand a controller to a small child and whisper, “Okay, let’s play.”

🎮 Level 1: The Illusion of Fun
It always starts with good intentions.
You imagine bonding.
You imagine laughter.
You imagine being the cool mom who knows how to jump, run, and collect the shiny things.

But within five minutes, you realize you’ve entered a realm where logic does not exist.

Your 4-year-old is spinning in circles, staring at the sky, proudly announcing, “I’m helping!”
Your 7-year-old is sprinting ahead like they’re training for the Video Game Olympics.
And you? You’re stuck between trying to keep everyone alive and trying not to scream, “STOP PRESSING RANDOM BUTTONS.”

🎮 Level 2: The Emotional Rollercoaster
There is no emotional neutrality in kid gaming.

• Someone is crying because they fell off a cliff.
• Someone else is crying because you didn’t wait for them.
• Someone is mad because the character they wanted is “too slow,” “too fast,” or “too something.”
• And someone (you) is questioning every life choice that led to this moment.

Meanwhile, the 4-year-old is still spinning in circles.

🎮 Final Level: Acceptance
Playing video games with little kids isn’t about winning.
It’s not about strategy.
It’s not even about the game.

It’s about being in their world—messy, silly, unpredictable, and full of joy.

And if you can survive this?
You can survive anything.

Today was not a “rise and grind” day.

It was a “why is everything slightly on fire” day.

I was late out the door. Not fashionably late. Not “traffic was wild” late. Just disorganized-human late.

I forgot to put a meeting on my calendar.
Which is especially impressive considering I run the calendar.

Then I backed into my employee’s car.
Yes. My employee’s car.
Nothing says “strong leadership presence” like standing in a parking lot staring at two vehicles that are now closer than they were meant to be… doing mental math about insurance deductibles and dignity.

And because the universe believes in pacing, I also had to make some not-fun decisions today. The kind that make you rehearse the conversation in your head 12 times and still feel like you swallowed a brick afterward.

It wasn’t catastrophic.

No one was hospitalized.

The company didn’t implode.

But it was one of those days where you end it thinking:

“Wow. Let’s not do that ever again.”

When the Wheels Wobble

Here’s the thing about days like this:
They mess with your identity more than your schedule.

It’s not just:
You forgot something.
You hit something.
You had to say something hard.

It’s the quiet whisper of: “Shouldn’t you be better at this by now?”

That’s the dangerous part.

Because one chaotic day can start to feel like a character flaw instead of a collection of events.

It’s not.

It’s a Monday with opinions.

How to Recover From a Dumpster-Fire-Adjacent Day

Not with a full life overhaul. Not with a new planner system. Not with a dramatic vow to “be different starting tomorrow.”

Just this:

1.Clean Up the Literal Mess

File the claim.
Send the follow-up email.
Own the oversight.
Have the hard conversation with clarity and respect.

Speed matters. The longer you let it sit, the heavier it feels.

2.Refuse to Globalize It

It was a bad day. Not a bad career. Not a bad company. Not a bad life.

Don’t turn: “I messed up today” into “I am a mess.”

Those are not the same sentence.

3.Protect Tomorrow Morning

After a day like this, you don’t need inspiration.

You need structure.
Lay out your clothes.
Triple-check your calendar.
Write down the top three priorities.
Go to bed.

Reduce friction. Increase stability. Lower the chaos-to-human ratio.

4.Let Survival Count

We glamorize thriving.

But survival has grit.

You showed up.
You handled what needed to be handled.
You didn’t pretend the car magically backed into itself.

Some days, that’s leadership.

Not polished. Not viral. Just responsible.

---

Tomorrow will probably be smoother.

And if it’s not? You now have evidence that you can withstand a mildly disastrous, ego-bruising, calendar-failing, bumper-crashing day.

That counts.

Some days aren’t for winning.
Some days are for surviving.

And survival is enough.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

Why I Do What I Do—and Why You Can Too

I want the world to be a better place.

Not in a vague, bumper-sticker way. In a real, tangible, everyday way. A way where people feel seen. Where kids are included. Where families are supported when life falls apart. Where communities don’t just exist, but actually care for each other.

That’s why I do what I do.
That’s why I show up.

And here’s the part that really matters to me: I show up for my kids too. I want Jazmyn, Thaddeus, and Phoebe to see what it looks like to care, to commit, to be brave enough to step in when something matters. I want them to know that change isn’t about being perfect—it’s about showing up, consistently, even when it’s hard or messy. I want them to grow up understanding that they can make a difference. That community isn’t just a word—it’s an action.

Every organization I’ve written about in recently exists because someone showed up. Someone volunteered. Someone raised their hand. Someone said yes when it would have been easier to stay comfortable, busy, or uninvolved.

And listen—I’m not special. I don’t have unlimited time or energy. I juggle kids, work, chaos, and exhaustion like everyone else. But I do believe that if we want a better world, we have to be willing to help build it.

Showing up looks different in different seasons. Sometimes it’s joining a board. Sometimes it’s volunteering. Sometimes it’s donating. Sometimes it’s simply caring loudly and consistently. None of it has to be perfect. It just has to be intentional.

I’ve seen what happens when people show up:

• Kids of all abilities playing together.
• Veterans finding support and community.
• Families finding shelter and support during their hardest days.
• Neighborhoods growing stronger because people invested in where they live.

That’s the world I want.
That’s why I keep saying yes.

And you can too.

You don’t have to do everything. You don’t have to know exactly where to start. Just look around. Find the place where your values meet a real need. And show up in whatever way you can right now.

The world doesn’t need more spectators.
It needs more people willing to care—and act.

Get involved. Volunteer. Serve on a board. Support a cause that matters to you. Show up imperfectly and wholeheartedly. If enough of us do, the world really can be a better place.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

There are seasons in life when everything feels heavy. Medical emergencies. Long hospital stays. Diagnoses that turn your world upside down. Those are the moments when logistics become overwhelming—and when Kathy’s House becomes essential.

I’m honored to serve on the board of Kathy’s House and to show up for an organization that meets families in their most vulnerable moments. This work is deeply personal, and it’s a privilege to support a place that offers not just a place to stay, but comfort, dignity, and hope when families need it most.

Kathy’s House provides affordable, welcoming lodging near hospitals so families can stay close to the people they love during medical crises. That might sound simple, but the impact is profound. When families don’t have to worry about where they’ll sleep or how they’ll afford a hotel, they can focus on what actually matters—being present.

What makes Kathy’s House special isn’t just the physical space. It’s the environment of care. Shared kitchens where conversations happen naturally. Quiet common areas where exhaustion is understood without explanation. A sense that you are surrounded by people who get it, even if you’ve never met before.

This is community at its most compassionate. It’s practical kindness. It’s showing up in the hardest moments, not with platitudes, but with real support.

When people say “it takes a village,” this is what they mean. Kathy’s House is proof that a caring community can carry people through the toughest chapters of their lives. I am so honored ro be a part of this village!

Support Kathy’s House by donating, volunteering, or sharing their mission. Help ensure that families navigating medical crises always have a safe place to stay—and a reminder that they’re not alone.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

One of the coolest things I get to be part of is The Ability Center—and I don’t say that casually. This is one of those places that quietly reshapes how you see the world once you’ve spent enough time there. It brings people of all abilities together in a way that feels natural, welcoming, and deeply human.

At its heart, The Ability Center focuses on adaptive fitness, recreation, and life skills. But if you stop there, you miss the bigger picture. What really happens in this space is confidence-building. Connection. Families finding each other. Kids discovering what their bodies can do. Adults gaining independence and joy through movement and community.

What I love most is that no one is treated like an exception here. There’s no awkwardness, no “othering.” The goal isn’t to fix people—it’s to remove barriers. And when barriers are removed, people thrive. It’s incredible to watch.

That philosophy is also why Moss Universal Park matters so much. Universal parks aren’t about creating something “special” or separate. They’re about creating something better. A place where kids of all abilities can play together—side by side, laughing, experimenting, being kids. No one redirected. No one left watching from the sidelines.

Supporting Moss Universal Park means supporting inclusion that actually shows up in real life. Not as a buzzword. Not as a checkbox. But as swings, ramps, sensory spaces, and shared joy.

This is what happens when communities choose to design with everyone in mind. And once you see it, you can’t unsee how important it is.

Learn more about The Ability Center. Support Moss Universal Park. Volunteer, donate, advocate, or simply talk about why inclusive spaces matter. Every bit of support helps create a world where belonging is the norm—not the exception.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

Building a Village Rooted in Dignity, Joy, and Community

One of the organizations I show up for—and genuinely love being part of—is Veterans Community Project. This is one of those ideas that makes you smile and think, of course this works. Tiny homes. Real community. Veterans supporting veterans. It’s thoughtful, hopeful, and deeply human.

Veterans Community Project is building tiny home villages designed to support veterans with stability, dignity, and independence. Each home is a place to land, reset, and move forward. But what really makes this special is the village itself. This isn’t about isolation—it’s about connection. Neighbors. Shared spaces. A sense of belonging that feels intentional and empowering.

Showing up for this work matters. It’s how we turn appreciation into action. Service deserves more than a thank-you—it deserves support that shows up in real, practical ways. Veterans Community Project does exactly that by creating spaces where veterans are valued, respected, and supported as whole people.

There is so much joy in seeing something tangible take shape. Actual homes. Actual community. Actual hope. This is what happens when people decide to show up and build something better—together.

We are literally building a village to honor those who served our country. And that feels like exactly the kind of world I want to help create.

Show up for our veteran community. Learn more about Veterans Community Project, support their mission through donations or volunteering, and help grow villages rooted in dignity, connection, and possibility.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

Being involved with the Village of Wauwatosa Business Improvement District has reinforced something I believe deeply: community doesn’t just happen. It’s built—slowly, intentionally, and by people who are willing to show up.

The BID supports local businesses, strengthens the Village, and helps create spaces that invite people to gather. That might look like events, improved streetscapes, or thriving storefronts—but behind every visible success is a lot of behind-the-scenes work.

Meetings. Planning. Collaboration. Problem-solving. Listening. Sometimes disagreeing. Always caring.

Meetings. Planning. Collaboration. Problem-solving. Listening. Sometimes disagreeing. Always caring.

What I’ve learned is that showing up consistently matters more than showing up perfectly. When residents and business owners invest time and energy into their neighborhood, the ripple effects are huge. Local businesses feel supported. The community feels connected. The Village feels alive.

This work isn’t flashy. But it’s meaningful. And it’s how places become more than just locations—they become homes.

Shop local. Attend Village events. Support the businesses and organizations that make Wauwatosa what it is. If you have the chance to get involved, take it—your presence truly matters.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

On my way home from helping at a different location, I decided to stop at Woodman’s. We live in Lannon—a small village next to Menomonee Falls. Woodman’s is in Menomonee Falls. This should be easy. I should absolutely be able to get home from here without GPS.

Reader, I could not.

Somehow, I found myself on the highway going the wrong direction. So, like any reasonable 40-year-old, I called my mom.

“You’re on speakerphone. Your dad is here.”

Great. He’s really who I need.

Mom and I share the same… let’s call it creative sense of direction. My dad, on the other hand, drove for a living. I swear he never took the highway and somehow went a different way every single time we went anywhere. Which, given my current navigational skill set, is deeply unhelpful.

Back to today.

I get off the highway and turn right because I know that’s the direction I want to go.

Dead end.

I have definitely been here before.

I turn around and just start driving in the general direction I feel like I should be going. I’m pretty sure I’m too far east? But surely I’ll hit a familiar road eventually, right? Right?!

From the phone I hear my dad:
“Laura, just put it in your GPS. Even I do it.”

Absolutely not.
I will never admit defeat. Never.

My mom chimes in: “I’m gonna hang up so you can pull over and turn on directions.”

“Okay, Mom.”

I do not pull over. Because again—I can and I will do this.

And then… Silver Spring.

Aha! SEE?! I told you.

Was I exactly where I was supposed to be? Debatable.
Did it take twice as long—maybe more—than it should have? Also yes.
But did I make it home?

Yep.

Will I make the same mistakes again?

Most likely. 😉

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

My coworkers see me as this very put-together, successful person who has it all under control. I mean my peers. Not the ones that actually work with me day in and day out…

I would like to formally invite them to spend one single weekday inside my actual life.

Today was my normal chaos—and honestly, I guess it doesn’t look that chaotic until you stack all the moments on top of each other like a Jenga tower built entirely out of stress and snack crumbs.

Mornings always start strong. We’re doing great. Everyone is moving. Shoes are on. Spirits are high. And then…it’s time to actually walk out the door.

Phoebe needs hug number 256. She is also suddenly starving. Shon is upstairs with Thaddeus. Jazmyn—do you have your hat? Zip your coat. Why don’t you have your backpack? You literally had it five seconds ago. Is this a magic trick?

I finally make it to the car and NPR is playing this really interesting segment about the results of DOGE. I pull into work and sit there way too long listening because my brain needs one calm, uninterrupted thought before the day eats me alive. I switch it to my phone and walk in…to find my boss there. Unannounced.

Was strolling in 20 minutes late the best timing? Probably not. But here we are.

The morning was hectic. None of the systems were working the way they should. I’m calling it user error, but honestly, I did exactly everything wrong—twice. Then had to recreate all the forms a completely different way.

And then: “Hey, you have a board meeting in 10 minutes.”

I pull out my notes. They say in person. The calendar invite says virtual. Cool cool cool. Either way, I’m late. And I don’t know how anyone ever gets out of an in-person meeting on time because 40 minutes after I should have left, I’m still there.

I finally escape…only to run back to work because I didn’t take any of my stuff. Because of course I have time. I need to make it to the doctor. (Still currently a medical mystery. Do I really need a uterus anymore? Dear uterus, this is your eviction notice.)

It’s too late to go back to work. I call my husband and fill him in. I’ve got medication to pick up and an ultrasound scheduled three weeks from now. I can pick up Jazmyn. We also need cereal. Looks like we’re going to the store.

Shon’s not feeling well and “wouldn’t mind soup and a sammich.” I have too much time to go straight to school but not enough time to go to the store first. Do I want to pick up Thaddeus too? Sure. Why not. Let’s collect them all.

We grab Jazmyn—uneventful, thank goodness—and head to the pharmacy. No cars in the drive-thru. A miracle! We’ll be in and out.

Nope. Phones are down. Come inside.

I haul the kids in and the line is 20 people deep. NOT TODAY. I can wait until morning. Can we get Happy Meals? If you’re good at the store.

I don’t normally shop at the Pig because it’s smaller and has fewer choices, but we only need a couple things. The kids each grab a tiny cart. This feels like a terrible idea but I commit anyway.

Soup aisle: every soup has about half a cup left. Not gonna work. BLTs it is—we need bacon. Grab the bacon. Let’s get a can of French onion soup and call it a day.

No French onion. Cool. Plain chicken noodle it is. Progresso will have to do.

Back to the car.

Oh crap. The cereal. The entire reason we came to the store!

Back inside, everyone.

Alright—bacon 🥓 for BLTs, cereal, crappy soup. You kiddos want Happy Meals? You got it.

We finally pull into the driveway and I look at the groceries.

No lettuce.
No tomatoes.

So it’s bacon sandwiches and crappy soup. Or leftovers. Sorry, Shon.

Put together?
Don’t judge a book by its cover.

In control?
On whose authority??

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.