Author: bananafudgenut

They say misery loves company, and if that’s true, then today was a success.

Today was Christmas cookie decorating—one of our cherished family traditions. We all pile into my mother’s kitchen with good intentions and absolutely zero decorating skills. The cookies are… not pretty. Frosting everywhere. Sprinkles in places sprinkles should never be. But we laugh. A lot. And that’s the whole point.

There is something about going to my mom’s house that flips a switch in me. Suddenly, instead of gently guiding my children toward “inside voices” and “calm behavior,” I’m actively encouraging chaos. Maybe I need her to experience the shenanigans I complain about all the time. Sharing is caring, right? 😏

I stuck my fingers directly into the frosting. I chased the kiddos around the kitchen. I loudly encouraged Phoebe to “get your brother.” I told Thaddeus—very seriously—that his cookie absolutely needed more googly eyes. More. Always more.

At one point my mom looked at me, shook her head, and declared, “Laura, you are worse than the kids.”

And with that… my work here was done.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

Whew. The holiday season is here, and she showed up like a glitter-covered freight train with zero brakes. Everything is happening all at once: work events, school things, family gatherings, community commitments, mystery obligations I swear I did not agree to (you all know it was me. I did so), and of course all the “fun” traditions we’re supposed to cram in while our homes slowly morph into festive disaster zones.

It’s been a minute since I’ve had time to breathe, let alone form coherent thoughts. This time of year hits in that “I’m doing my best but also I might scream into a pillow” kind of way.

I was at a networking event recently, and they asked everyone what they’re most excited for this holiday season. Someone said, “Honestly? For it to be over.” And listen—my spirit left my body for a second just to say same, girl. I felt that deep in my over-caffeinated soul.

In an attempt to keep myself from fully short-circuiting, I’ve been trying these tiny, ridiculous ways to relax. Like stepping outside for sixty seconds to breathe cold air and pretend I’m starring in a calm winter movie instead of the one where I’m running around with three bags, a half-written to-do list, and a mental breakdown brewing. Or sitting in my car for an extra beat just to admire the neighbors’ holiday lights and pretend I don’t have my own tangled mess waiting inside. I’ve even started making a “Nope List,” where I officially declare things I’m not doing this year. It feels powerful. Slightly unhinged, but powerful. And honestly? Hiding in the shower with no phone, no questions, and no one yelling “MOM!” might be the closest I get to a spa day.

But truly — how do people slow down? Who taught them? Where is that class? I need a “How to Chill 101” course ASAP, preferably one that includes snacks, gold stars, and someone gently slapping the overachiever energy out of me.

Still, I’m trying to remind myself: it’s okay to pause. It’s okay to drop a ball or two. It’s okay that the holidays feel like too much — because they are. Surviving December without losing your mind should honestly come with an award ceremony.

So yeah, it’s been a minute. I’m tired. I’m trying. I’m a festive tornado with a coffee habit. But I’m here, showing up, chaos and all.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

We tried. For four years we tried.
Every winter we rolled the dice and told ourselves we don’t need a snow blower, because really… there was only ONE storm that ever made us wish we had one.

Well.
Wisconsin finally said bet.

This weekend dumped a little over 10 inches of snow straight onto our very large, very unforgiving driveway. And of course—because the universe loves good timing—Shon’s been dealing with back issues. So I, in all my overconfidence, announced:

“You stay with Phoebe. I’ll take care of the driveway.”
I’m a strong independent woman. I can handle it….

Then Jazmyn and Thaddeus bundled up and came outside to “help” — which mostly meant making snowballs, stomping down the piles I already shoveled, and tattling on each other for breathing wrong. Still, the laughter and rosy cheeks were hard to be mad at. They were having a full winter wonderland moment while I was having a lower-back crisis.

We spent almost five hours outside and got through half the driveway. My patience melted long before the snow did, but the kids had fun — like really fun. Snow angels, mini snow forts, the kind of memories that make the frozen toes and sore shoulders feel a little more worth it.

At one point, I handed over my phone for pictures of the kids playing, then told little man to put it inside when they were done. I asked if he did, and he told me yes. I should’ve asked for clarification… because four hours later, when I went looking for it, he informed me:

“I put it under your car.”

Not inside.
Not on the porch.
Under. The. Car.

Which would’ve been less of a crisis if Shon hadn’t brushed snow off the cars later and unknowingly buried it. After ten minutes of digging like archaeologists uncovering lost tech (and a lot of silent internal screaming), we found it — frozen, but alive. And thankfully, not tire-marked.

So, Wisconsin, message received. Loud, snowy, undeniable.

We’re getting a snow blower.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

Thanksgiving — our annual family marathon disguised as a meal. Every year, we tell ourselves this time will be calm, organized, peaceful. And every year, chaos just sits in the corner giggling, sharpening a butter knife.

My mother, commander of holiday logistics, declared that dinner would be at 12:30. A very deliberate, non-negotiable 12:30.
So naturally, I told my husband noon.
Which is marriage code for we will absolutely arrive around 1, frazzled, breathless, and acting like that was the plan all along. Tradition is important.

But the real chaos starter didn’t even happen on Thanksgiving — it started the day before, when I decided to go grocery shopping. On purpose. (Why?!?) The store was a war zone: shopping carts crashing like bumper cars, half the aisles empty, and one woman fighting for canned gravy like it held the secrets of immortality. I escaped with groceries, trauma, and a new understanding of survival.

I got home, feeling victorious… and promptly slipped on the icy stairs. Full cartoon wipeout. Groceries airborne. Cranberries rolling away like they were escaping the country. My back hit the ground so hard it filed a noise complaint. Now I’m walking around like a retired pirate with old injury stories and weather predictions based on pain levels.

But still — we packed everyone up and headed to Thanksgiving like the chaotic circus troupe we are.

The kiddos didn’t enter the house — they launched into it. Running, screaming, sliding, bouncing off relatives like pinballs. Someone disappeared under the dining table. Someone else staged a cookie heist. At one point I think the children unionized and claimed the living room in the name of Anarchy and Crackers.

And yet… as wild as it was — as loud, messy, unfiltered and deeply unhinged as the whole day felt — I looked around at everyone and felt something warm (besides back pain and mild embarrassment):

Gratitude.

Because this is my chaos.
My loud family.
My unpredictable life filled with bruises, laughter, schedules we never meet, and children who treat holidays like endurance marathons.

I’m grateful for the noise, the memories, the laughter-that-hurts-your-ribs kind of moments.
I’m grateful for the people who love us even when we show up late, limping, with kids screaming like banshees.

And tomorrow — because we apparently crave more chaos — we’re adding a cat to the mix. A furry little gremlin to complete the scene. Why? Because our home runs on joy, noise, and just enough ridiculousness to keep things interesting.

Life isn’t perfect.
It’s not even close.
It’s chaotic, loud, messy, unpredictable — and deeply, beautifully mine.

And for that, I am thankful beyond words.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

Sometimes I forget to eat… and today was absolutely one of those days. It has been a whole entire day, okay? It was my Saturday to work, which normally means I can catch up from the blur that was the week before. I had dreams. Plans. Visions of being ahead of schedule like some Pinterest-version of myself.

Instead? Chaos. Weird issues. Random fires popping up everywhere. You know—Saturday.

But fine, at least after work I could relax… right after we went to the birthday party we were invited to. So I’m driving home, mentally sorting my life, and as I pull onto our street, I spot a truck hanging out next to our driveway. Odd. I turn in and see a woman on the outside of the truck calling to a dog.

My dog.

Cue the world’s biggest eye roll.

Jewel sees me and comes sprinting across the street like a furry toddler with a death wish. Please don’t get run over in front of my actual face, thanks. I pull over and—OF COURSE—we begin the traditional game of “I bet you won’t chase me.” And every single time she gets loose, someone inevitably asks:

“Is that your dog?”

No, Karen. I just enjoy chasing random dogs down suburban streets in my free time. Yes, she’s mine.

So we do what we always do. I get back in the car, she chases the car, we drive to the circle drive across the street, and I loop around until she gets tired enough for me to scoop her dramatic behind inside. Tradition.

“Okay kiddos—we’re now officially late. LET’S GO.”

We roll up to the birthday party at a karate studio. The kids go full ninja-raccoon and run around like the floors are lava. Phoebe skips her nap and enters her feral era. Eventually we get everyone home, and that’s when I realize…

We have no milk.

Absolutely not. I’m not fighting nighttime toddler chaos without milk. So I take Phoebe with me—she knocks out instantly, because of course she does. We get home right as she wakes up like Sleeping Beauty with bedhead. I put groceries away, throw a lasagna in the oven, and suddenly I’m wondering…

Why do I feel so icky?

Then it hits me: it’s almost 5 p.m., I’ve been running around since 6 a.m., and all I’ve eaten are two veggie straws and the latte I inhaled this morning.

Oh. Yeah. That’ll do it.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

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.

Sometimes I swear my husband and I speak entirely different languages.

Him: “Did you put back the thing?”

Me: “No… is there one down there or do I need another one?”

Him: proceeds to explain what the “thing” is.

Me: “Yes, I know what it is—do we have one or do I need a new one?”

Him: explains what the thing is again.

Me: stares, sighs, starts to talk… “Okay.” storms off shaking head dramatically.

I genuinely want to communicate better, but let’s be honest—patience is in short supply these days. Between Thaddeus yelling “Mommy! I’M GOING TO FOLLOW YOU WHEREVER YOU GO!” (and absolutely following through on that promise), Jazmyn crying because she can’t have her third snack before dinner, and Phoebe losing her mind every time I dare to set her down… I’m just trying to survive.

So, if anyone has tips for decoding husband-speak—or toddler logic—please share. Until then, I’ll be over here whispering sweet nothings to my glass of wine.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

Phoebe’s first birthday was a howling success! The house was filled with haunts, food, laughter, and all our favorite people. We went all in on the theme — Phoebe’s Forest of Fear — and it turned out better than I could have imagined. There were spiders, bones, and just the right amount of scares (the fun kind, not the toddler-trauma kind). The kiddos ran wild, the adults joined in, and it was pure, chaotic joy from start to finish.

Family time always fills my heart (and my sink, and my laundry basket). But seriously — I love that my nieces and nephews actually want to come to our house and stay all weekend. They roll in like a mini tornado, take over the place, and somehow convince me that 10 p.m. is an acceptable bedtime for toddlers. It’s chaos, but it’s my favorite kind of chaos.

And then it hit me — my baby is one. ONE. How?! I swear I just brought her home yesterday, and now she’s walking around with crumbs in her hair and bossing the dog. Phoebe is our last, and that realization is hitting hard. Every “last first” is this emotional rollercoaster — part pride, part heartbreak, and part wondering where the time even went.

But for now, I’m just soaking it in — the noise, the giggles, the crumbs, the chaos, the love. Because if this is what the forest of fear looks like, I’ll happily live here forever.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

My husband is amazing. Truly. He stays home with the kiddos, fixes all the random things that break around the house, and can operate a sewing machine like it’s nobody’s business.

But a master painter?

Absolutely not.

Please, my love, for the sake of our sanity—put down the paintbrush.

To be fair, he did a great job last week painting the kitchen cabinets. They look chef’s kiss perfect. Except, you know… for the dark blue paint splatters all over the walls.

“We’re painting the walls anyway,” he says.

Cue my involuntary eye roll.

Fast forward to today. We go to Menards, pick out paint. Grandma and Grandpa (literal saints) take the kids trick-or-treating. The perfect setup for a productive, peaceful painting day.

And then—chaos.

Not once. Not twice. But three times my husband manages to dump paint on the floor. Not a drip, not a little splatter—full-on puddles of paint.

We’re mid–first coat when he looks at me and says, “I’m going to get the sprayer.”

Oh God. Please no!

I tell him, “If you do that, you’re going to make a mess and we’ll have to touch up everything.”

“No, no. I’ll use the little one,” he insists. “It’ll be fine. I won’t do the edges.”

Surrrre.

He makes a mess. Obviously.

I’m feeding the baby, and I say, “Give me a minute and I’ll touch up the windows” (which, by the way, are dark blue). Pheebs finishes eating, and I walk into the kitchen only to find—dark blue paint. Everywhere.

Around the trim, the counters, the walls, the soul of our home.

“Well, now we have to touch up the white,” he says cheerfully.

Dearest husband, I adore you. But please. For the love of all things home improvement—do not touch the blue paint anymore.

“I’m just doing the white,” he promises.

I am worried. Deeply, spiritually worried.

Because at this rate… I will be touching up paint in the kitchen forever.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine

So, I decided to paint the kitchen this weekend. Because clearly, between work, a baby who just started walking, and a house that currently looks like a small natural disaster hit it, that was the logical next step.

The project started optimistically—coffee in hand, paint tray ready, playlist queued up. It was going to be one of those productive, “look at me being a functioning adult” kind of days. And then Phoebe… started walking. Like, really walking.

One minute she was wobbling between the couch and the coffee table, and the next, she was on a full-scale expedition through every drawer, cabinet, and mildly dangerous surface in the house. I swear I turned around for two seconds, and she was proudly holding a paintbrush like she was ready to join the renovation team. Which would be cute if I wasn’t 98% sure she was going to paint the dog.

Now, every time I turn my back, it’s a race—me versus the tiny chaos gremlin. Paint roller in one hand, baby wipes in the other, trying to keep her from “helping” while also not tripping over a pile of Halloween decorations I swore I’d put up two weeks ago.

Speaking of Halloween… somehow, between finishing the kitchen and cleaning the house that currently looks like a paint store exploded, I need to dig out the bins of pumpkins, skeletons, and fake cobwebs. I keep telling myself it’s festive clutter, not just… clutter.

Anyway, the kitchen is half-painted, Phoebe has claimed a plastic cauldron as her new toy, and I’m fairly certain I stepped in paint and crushed candy corn.We’re thriving. Sort of.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.