Author: bananafudgenut

Being a girl is the absolute worst.
10/10 do not recommend.

Let me start by saying: yes, I should have gone to the doctor a minute ago. I’ve been bleeding on and off for over a month now. Shovel snow? Bleeding starts. Decide I’m going to become a runner (that lasted approximately 15 minutes)? Bleeding starts. Slip and fall on the ice? You guessed it. Bleeding.

The last few days—what I can only assume is my actual period—has rivaled the Great Floods of… honestly, pick one. Noah would be concerned.

This happened once before a few years ago. After a long night in the ER where they did literally nothing (except take a wild amount of blood), it was concluded that I am, medically speaking, ✨a mystery✨.

Fast forward to now. My OB from my last pregnancy was not my favorite, and the nurse takes 12–14 business days to return a phone call. I do have a new patient appointment on Tuesday and I’m on the cancellation list. After putting my uterus on notice the other day—specifically informing it that I have a doctor’s appointment where I will be advocating for its removal and destruction—it has suddenly decided to behave in a normal fashion.

Suspicious.

The point of all this is: I am already tired. And cranky. And operating on very thin emotional margins.

At work, I’m the boss. All day long, I’m the go-to person. Questions, decisions, problems—bring them to me. I’ve got it.

Then I get home.

The kiddos are thrilled to see me. And my wonderful husband, who stays home with them so I can go to work (not an easy job, by the way), somehow has the magical ability to block out the kids, the dog, and the cat like they do not exist.

I walk in the door and immediately cannot even set my things down before I have three people clinging to me—literally—all trying to talk at once. They are so loud. So many words. So many needs. All at the same volume.

Overstimulated has entered the chat.

It’s the weekend and we still haven’t gotten a snow blower. My husband’s back is still not great, so we go out to shovel. I step outside and notice the shovels are lined up against the fence across the driveway. Why would we not keep them somewhere that doesn’t require trudging across a snow-covered driveway to retrieve them? I don’t know. I choose to let that one go. Growth.

I grab my shovel and start clearing the stairs. A few minutes go by and I hear a motor running.

Curious—because, again, we do not have a snow blower.

I round the corner of the house and there he is…with the leaf blower. Blowing the snow around.

Suddenly, I am swept up in a homemade blizzard of snow, dirt, and gravel. My husband thinks this is hysterical. I do not. I retreat to the opposite end of the driveway.

To be fair, leaf blowing the snow did work. But it was not faster by any stretch of the imagination. And as the other person clearing snow, I was now dealing with significantly more debris flying at my face, causing my eyes to water and my nose to run nonstop.

But it saved his back, so… fine.

I get inside and am immediately attacked by tiny humans. My glasses are fogged. I cannot see. I cannot move. Someone asks if Mommy can get out of her boots. I have to go to the bathroom. I cannot breathe because my nose has been running for the last hour and a half without stopping to blow it.

I make it to the bathroom and shut the door to keep the hooligans out.

They are literally standing outside yelling:
“Can I have candy?”
“Will you snuggle with me?”
“Is it my turn to watch something?”
“Mommy!”
“The TV isn’t working!”

Can you all please leave me alone for three f*ing seconds?!

And yet… after all that.

I do love snuggling on the couch with whichever kiddo jumps into my lap. I know there will be a day when they don’t want to snuggle anymore. I know I will miss it.

So yes—let’s snuggle, kiddo.
But do Mommy a favor and keep the noise to a minimum. No narrating your entire life. No sudden shrieks. No interpretive sound effects. Just quiet snuggles. Whisper-level existence.

Deal?

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

Every year around this time, the internet collectively decides we should become new people.

New habits. New routines. New bodies. New planners that will absolutely fix everything.

And every year, I nod politely… while knowing full well that I am not about to wake up at 5 a.m. to journal in silence and drink lemon water like a serene woodland creature.

So this year, I’m trying something different.

My New Year’s resolution is doing all the things with intention.

Not perfection. Not aesthetic. Intention.

Which, frankly, feels both ambitious and realistic for the first time ever.

What “Intention” Actually Means in Real Life

Let’s be clear—this is not about suddenly having my life together….I’m still me…

This is about:

• Saying yes because I want to, not because I feel guilty
• Saying no without writing a novel of excuses
• Choosing rest on purpose instead of collapsing from burnout
• Being present even when things are loud, messy, and mildly unhinged

Intentional doesn’t mean slow. It doesn’t mean quiet. And it definitely doesn’t mean everything is calm.

It means I’m choosing it.

Parenting With Intention (Send Help)

Doing things with intention as a parent is… a journey.

Some days, intention looks like:

• Getting on the floor to play instead of scrolling
• Listening all the way through a story that makes absolutely no sense
• Pausing before reacting (instead of immediately choosing chaos)

Other days, intention looks like:

• Ordering takeout because everyone is tired
• Letting the kids watch one more episode so I can breathe
• Admitting I’m overstimulated and need five minutes alone

Both count. Growth and survival can coexist.

Work, Life, and All the In-Between

Professionally, intention means I’m paying attention to where my energy goes.

I want my work to align with my values.
I want my calendar to reflect my priorities.
I want to show up fully—not just be busy for the sake of being busy.

I’m done glorifying exhaustion. (Sure.)
I’m done wearing burnout like a badge of honor.
I’m done pretending that “just pushing through” doesn’t have consequences. (Are you sure it does though?)

This year, I’m choosing impact over optics.

The Goal Isn’t Perfection—It’s Awareness

Here’s the truth: I’m definitely going to mess up.

I’ll overcommit.
I’ll lose my patience.
I’ll forget to slow down until my body forces me to.

But the difference this year is that I’m noticing.

And noticing is something, right? It has to be at least a start.

Because when you’re intentional, you don’t need to change everything—you just need to change the why behind it.

So here’s to a year of doing things on purpose.
Messy. Loud. Imperfect. Meaningful.

And if nothing else… at least I’ll know I chose it.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine. ☕🔥

You know those days where you wake up convinced it’s Monday…
but your calendar insists it’s Friday…
and your brain has fully opted out of participating either way?

Yeah. That day.

Today has been the Mondayest Friday ever. The kind of day where you ask, “What day is it?” at least six times before noon and still don’t believe the answer. The kind where you blink and somehow it’s 3:47 p.m. and you’re pretty sure you haven’t accomplished anything—yet you’re also inexplicably exhausted.

Where did the day go?
Who authorized time to move this fast?
And why does my to-do list look exactly the same as it did this morning… but angrier?

I had a plan. A solid one. A written-down one. And yet the day immediately laughed, flipped the table, and replaced it with meetings, emails, fires that needed putting out, and that one task that should’ve taken five minutes but instead consumed an hour and a half and part of my soul.

It’s the mental whiplash for me.

You start the day thinking, “I’ll wrap things up early—yay Friday!”
Next thing you know, you’re staring at your screen wondering if it’s socially acceptable to reschedule life until Monday.

And here’s the thing no one tells you:
Some Fridays aren’t celebratory.
Some Fridays are survival mode in business casual.

You don’t get the dopamine hit of crossing everything off the list. You get half a win. A few checkmarks. Some progress that doesn’t look impressive on paper but absolutely counts.

Because sometimes “getting everything done” is a myth we tell ourselves to feel productive.

Today? Today is a do what you can day.

You answered the important emails.
You moved the needle—even if just an inch.
You showed up when it would’ve been easier to mentally clock out by 10 a.m.

That counts.

Not every day is meant for crushing goals. Some days are meant for managing chaos, adjusting expectations, and reminding yourself that productivity doesn’t always look pretty.

So if today felt like a blur…
If you’re asking where the time went…
If your brain feels like it’s buffering…

You’re not behind. You’re human.

Close the laptop. Breathe. Reset. Monday will come soon enough (because of course it will). Until then, give yourself credit for what did get done—even if it wasn’t everything.

Some Fridays are for celebration.
Some are for grace.

This one? Definitely grace.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine. ☕✨

I offered to help the kids clean their room. Help. Like a fool.

Immediately, the tiny humans transformed into what I can only describe as tiny terrorists with zero respect for authority, logic, or basic physics. Eyeballs? Gone. Ears? Optional. Patience? Mine has left the building.

Cleaning began the only way it ever does: with them picking something up, staring at it like it personally offended them, and then moving it to a new location three inches away.

“Put it away.”
“I am.”
No. No, you are not. You just relocated the problem.

Then came the Magna-Tiles incident. I started putting them into the bucket. Efficient. Productive. A plan.

That’s when the tiny human decided we were playing Who’s Faster: Mommy or Chaos.

I put tiles in.
They throw tiles out.
Direct eye contact. Smiling.

“We are cleaning, not playing!” I announced, foolishly believing this was new information.

It escalated quickly.

I attempted to remove a toy no one has touched since 2020. Hostile negotiations immediately began. Tears. Bargaining. Claims of deep emotional attachment.

“I LOVE THAT TOY.”
Name it.
Silence.

Why is my shoe in here? Why is there a spoon? Why is there a single sock that belongs to no one? I found things I didn’t know we owned and things I’m fairly certain don’t belong to us at all.

Every suggestion I made was met with resistance.

“Can you put that in the drawer?”
“What if I put it on the bed?”
No. That’s the same crime in a different location.

At some point I realized I was no longer helping. I was negotiating with people who do not understand consequences, time, or the concept of later. I started accepting deals I never thought I’d agree to.

“Fine. Keep it. Just put it in the bin.”
“Fine. Yes. That too.”
“Sure. Whatever. Please stop throwing things.”

Eventually, the room reached a level of cleanliness I can only describe as emotionally acceptable. The tiny terrorists declared victory. I declared survival.

I left the room tired, overstimulated, missing one shoe, and fully aware we’ll be back here again soon—renegotiating terms with people who absolutely will not honor the agreement.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

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.