Author: bananafudgenut

It’s been a week. You know the kind — where everything is a blur of half-finished projects, questionable decisions, and caffeine-fueled survival instincts. Between my unexpected bathroom remodel, work, the kiddos, and my ongoing effort to not get the cold everyone else in the house has, I’m holding it together with drywall dust and sheer spite.

Let’s start with the remodel. I didn’t want a remodel. I wanted a functional bathroom. But apparently the home repair gods looked down and said, “Ha, cute.” One leaky situation turned into a demolition derby, and suddenly I’m knee-deep in tile samples and regret. I’ve been to Menards ten times in the past few days — at this point, I should get my own parking spot and maybe a loyalty punch card that says “Buy 9 tubs of grout, get therapy free.”

And then there’s Thaddeus. My darling chaos gremlin. That kid has been on another level this week. Yesterday, on Menards trip number ten (yes, ten), he hit his final boss form of not listening. After several failed peace talks and at least one whispered “I swear to everything holy, please just stop touching stuff,” I lost it. In front of everyone, I told him if he didn’t start behaving, I’d take him to the forest and tie him to a tree for the monsters to get. Loudly. Publicly. While holding a cart full of caulk and broken dreams. A+ parenting. (For the record, no forest adventures were scheduled, and he’s still alive and unbothered — probably planning his revenge.)

Work hasn’t been much calmer. We managers got together for a “team building event,” which, let’s be honest, was just us eating snacks, beverages and watching the game. And honestly? It was perfect. For a glorious stretch of time, no one needed me. No small humans were asking for snacks. No tiles were falling off walls. It was just football, laughter, and the sweet illusion that I have my life together.

So yeah — this week’s highlight reel: half a bathroom, ten Menards trips, one monster threat, a house full of sniffles I’ve not quite dodged but still refuse to admit defeat, and one precious pocket of sanity in between. I’m not saying I’ve got it together — but I am saying the house hasn’t burned down, so I’m going to call it a win.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

Okay. So. I am an allegedly competent adult. Like- people trust me. With money. I manage people, budgets, strategy—like, real grown-up stuff. And yet here I am. In the shower. Losing a fight to gravity and basic coordination.

It starts innocent enough—shaving my legs, minding my business, trying not to die. And then BAM. I somehow gouge the ever-loving crap out of my toe. Why? Because apparently, I forgot how balance works. Cool.

Then I notice there’s already blood on my ankle. Oh good! I injured myself before the actual fall. Efficiency! Love that for me.

Let’s add some context: I’m at my parents’ house because our bathroom is gutted down to the studs (see yesterday’s “chaos edition: mold and misery”). Their shower? Has a curtain. Not a door. A CURTAIN. You cannot lean on a curtain, Laura. And yet. You did.

Now I’m slipping, bleeding, trying to finish shaving one-legged like some deranged flamingo, thinking, “This is how I die. Naked. In my parents’ shower. Truly my legacy.”

So now I’m wobbling, bleeding, shaving, and swearing—like a one-woman action movie nobody asked for. I finally think, okay, abort mission, get out before you die. I step out—except apparently the floor is not where it’s supposed to be—and my entire body goes, “SURPRISE!”

I yell “Son of a—Jesus, Mary—I got it, I got it!”

Now I’m bleeding, dripping, and half-naked, hopping around my parents’ bathroom trying to find a towel that isn’t white because, well, blood. Their vanity drawers are all slippery smooth, so I’m slamming them open and shut like a raccoon in a panic.

Cue my mom from the other side of the door: “ARE YOU OKAY IN THERE?”

Yes, Mom. Just having a casual battle for my dignity. Totally fine.

And here’s the thing—I know how ridiculous I am. I know it. Painfully aware. Like, some people live their whole lives blissfully unaware of their chaos and I envy them. They just float around being normal and not, you know, this.

Meanwhile, I’m out here broadcasting every idiotic thing I do like it’s a TED Talk titled “How to Injure Yourself Doing Absolutely Nothing.”

Add it to the list of things I am absolutely not going to work on.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

Oh, I don’t know… go to work, come home and maybe relax? Catch up on laundry? Enjoy a fun Wednesday evening game night? Nope. Apparently, the universe had other plans. Because today’s agenda was: demo my bathroom, remediate mold, and go full HGTV emergency reno mode.

Let’s rewind.

About a month ago, my husband mentioned the water heater was leaking. We did the classic homeowner troubleshooting routine—squint at it, watch a YouTubevideo, poke around, shrug, and declare it “probably fine.” It wasn’t that much water, after all. What could possibly go wrong?

Fast forward to this morning. I turn on the shower, reach to move the showerhead, and the entire thing rips out of the wall. Now there’s still a little water coming out, but not enough. Which means that water is definitely going somewhere it shouldn’t.

Cue my internal scream.

I run downstairs, and there it is—water puddling near the water heater again, only this time it’s cascading down the wall like a sad little waterfall of regret. I knew it. This was the “leak” all along. The kind of moment where you just stare at it and think: Why. Why today.

So we do what any sane person does—we grab tools, tear down walls, and unleash drywall dust everywhere. Boom. Shower wall? Gone. Drywall? Everywhere. My sanity? Questionable.

But hey—demo is done, the mold is gone, supplies are purchased, and a shiny new shower is officially on order.

Huge shoutout to Mom and Dad for watching the kiddos and letting us invade their shower while ours currently looks like a crime scene from “CSI: Homeownership.” You’re the real MVPs.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

Everyone keeps telling me, “You need to rest.”And I swear, I try. I really do. But somehow, even resting turns into a project.

I’ll sit down with a blanket and think, “Okay, time to recharge.” Then five minutes later, I’m reorganizing my camera roll, making a to-do list for next week, or trying to “rest more productively” by watching a documentary I can claim is educational.

Apparently, I don’t know how to just… rest.

So then the universe—or, more accurately, my immune system—decides to intervene. Cue the sore throat, the stuffy nose, and that delightful mix of exhaustion and regret. Suddenly, I’m forced to rest. And I hate it.

Because let’s be honest: forced rest doesn’t feel like rest. It feels like being trapped in your own body, watching your productivity evaporate while you count down the hours until you can do things again.

It’s the ultimate betrayal. You finally slow down, and your body’s like, “Oh good, you’re still now? Perfect, let’s completely shut down your sinuses while we’re at it.”

So yes, maybe I do need to rest. But can I please get the version where I wake up refreshed and not surrounded by tissues and self-loathing?

Until then, I’ll be here—aggressively “relaxing,” because apparently that’s a thing now.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

After a week that felt like juggling flaming swords while riding a unicycle, today’s Susan G. Komen Pink Walk in Milwaukee was exactly what the doctor ordered. Sunshine, smiles, and mountains of pink—suddenly, life made sense again (or at least for an hour or two).

Jazz came with me, and let me tell you—she nailed swag duty. She was darting from survivor to survivor with swag in hand like a tiny boss in her own right. I tried to keep up, but mostly I was just tripping over shoelaces and trying not to spill my coffee. The cutest, most efficient little helper ever—seriously, she might be running her own non-profit by the time she’s ten.

The survivors…wow. Their courage, their smiles, the way they cheered each other on—it was inspiring. And yes, the signs and tributes for those who didn’t make it were heartbreaking. There were a few moments I had to blink back tears while Jazz enthusiastically reminded me that chocolate bars were more important than feelings. (She’s not wrong.)

Walking through the crowd, seeing all those people connected by hope and love, I remembered why these walks exist: to honor those who fight, support those who need it, and remind the rest of us to show up with as much energy as we can muster—even if that energy is mostly fueled by coffee and sheer stubbornness.

So, yes. Today I walked, I cheered, I handed out swag (with Jazz stealing the spotlight), and I left feeling lighter, fuller, and strangely hopeful.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

This week has been… a circus. And guess who’s the ringmaster? Yep. Me.

At work: impromptu meetings, networking events, employee issues, and my turn to cover Saturday and Sunday event sponsorships. Being the boss sometimes feels like herding cats in a thunderstorm. I tell my employees: “When you’ve got people in front of you, that’s your time to shine!” Instead, half of them act like deer in headlights. The other half decide to do the exact opposite-with attitude- and see what happens. Then I’m the bad guy. Cool, cool. Guess I’ll just go polish my villain crown.

At home: the tiny humans decided to double down on the chaos. Within five minutes, my house became a blanket fort, a snack crime scene, and a WWE wrestling match. Meanwhile, I’m over here asking life’s most important questions: Why is there peanut butter on the dog? Who put a lego in my coffee? Why is there a ketchup bottle in the bathtub? And why do I even bother asking- because the answer is chaos.

I try to sip my coffee like it’s liquid armor, but it’s lukewarm and judgmental. I remind myself: I’m not just surviving, I’m leading. Leading a team of humans, tiny and grown, through the madness. And yes, occasionally I have to wield my villain crown like a boss, because someone’s got to keep the circus from eating itself.

By the time I flop on the couch, I’m a little frazzled, a lot caffeinated, but still standing. Because this week might have been a circus… but the ringmaster? Still undefeated.

Confidently winging it—powered by chaos and caffeine.

Okay, so this is a little off my normal tone (I know, usually it’s chaos and sarcasm), but stick with me. I read something the other day that really stuck: moms are constantly torn between being present and being productive. And that leaves us in this constant state of “not enoughness.” Ugh. Nailed it.

It’s like this never-ending juggling act. My current motto? “There’s plenty of time for sleep when you’re dead.” Not exactly the best health advice, but it’s keeping me moving. Because honestly—time is flying. I swear I blink and the kids are suddenly older, taller, sassier, and knocking out about 25 new milestones each.

Would I like my house to look like a magazine spread? Yes. Do I cringe a little when my mother-in-law walks in and sees five laundry baskets overflowing with clothes waiting to be folded? (At least they’re clean and not gross, thank you very much.) Yup. Do I have about 485 projects half-started? Sure do. Will they all get done? Ehh… eventually. Or maybe not.

But here’s the thing: it’s fine. Really. Give yourself some grace. Do the best you can. Because if I asked my kids right now what they think, I guarantee they’d say I’m the best mommy in the whole wide world. And that beats a spotless house and folded laundry any day.

So, mama—deep breath. You’re doing just fine. You are enough.

Mommy woke up tired. An hour and twenty minutes after I should have gotten up tired. I willfully turned my alarm off and went back to sleep.

Today was the Monday-est Monday: My coffee needed a coffee, my to-do list is filing a restraining order, everything that could wobble, did. Employees, programming, HR, people — like someone tossed a bag of chaos into the air and we all waited to see where it landed.

Work felt like a glitchy video game where the NPCs have unionized. Employee problems? Check. Meetings that didn’t accomplish all we meeded it to? Also check. Programming decisions that make you question the general concept of logic? Absolutely. HR with its gentle, loving way of saying “no” to everything that would make life faster? Present and accounted for.

Midday: take my sister to the airport on my lunch break. Because of course I did. Because what’s a little domestic logistics between two scheduled breakdowns?

And then: “Here’s a fire. There’s a fire.” Not literal — at least not usually — but metaphorically speaking, alarms everywhere. Priorities on fire, calendars on fire, mental bandwidth on fire. You put out one flame and three more pop up like the world is playing a sick version of Whac-A-Mole.

I get home thinking maybe the home front will be my calm harbor. LOL. The kiddos are wild — a perfectly calibrated hurricane of energy, right when your battery hits 3%. Toys everywhere, two referees short, one toddler negotiating bedtime like it’s international diplomacy. Every quiet moment at home is immediately followed by a new emergency: spilled milk, sibling treaty violations, the classic “but I’m not tired” at 8:02 p.m.

And then there’s the small, irrational voice that lives in the corners of my brain: every morning I wake up and wonder, is today the day we go to the hospital? Part of me wanted my kids to grow up fearless — to go outside, to climb trees, to get messy and live big. And I meant it. But some days I stare at the swings and think maybe a little caution would have been helpful. A tiny, reasonable dose of fear would do Mommy’s anxiety a whole lot of good.

There’s also that weird parent paradox: I wanted brave kids and know I will miss the days when bravery was a scraped knee and not a phone call at 2 a.m. I question my life choices — loudly and often in the shower — because hindsight is 20/20 and also judgmental.

But here’s the weird part: even on the Monday-est Monday, between the fires and flights and frantic snack negotiations, there are tiny, ridiculous moments that somehow glue the day together. The kid who insists on holding your hand across the parking lot. The sibling that shares a crayon. The coworker who actually sends one helpful Slack message that saves your life. The sister who texts a selfie from the terminal and says, “Thanks for the ride.”

So we go to bed. We inhale, exhale, reboot. Tomorrow we will wake up, get dressed, drink lukewarm coffee, answer a million little and big questions, and do it all again — probably with slightly less coordination and slightly more love. Maybe that’s the point: the chaos stays, the small mercies multiply, and we somehow keep showing up.

Mommy is tired — but also still here. And if you see me tomorrow, I’ll probably be holding my coffee like a security blanket and whispering, “Let’s not start any literal fires today, okay?”

Mommy is tired. It has been a long week! Lots of fun—golf outing, networking events, lunch and learns, volunteering at the Hunger Task Force Farm… I know, I know. Rough life. But mommy is beyond tired. And when mommy is tired, everything at home feels like an episode of Parenting: The Twilight Zone.

Why is the floor wet?

I asked this question three times this week. Each time, I got the same response: silence. Which is never a good sign. Was it water? Juice? Dog bowl overflow? My own tears? I’ll never know. What I do know is that the fastest way to turn a “normal” day into a meltdown is stepping in an unidentified puddle while wearing socks.

What is in your mouth?

Listen, kids have a sixth sense for finding things. Not toys, not snacks—just things. Random, tiny, horrifying things. A marble. A sticker. A stale goldfish cracker that somehow survived under the couch cushion for two weeks. If my kids ever go missing, I don’t need bloodhounds. I just need to scatter paperclips and pennies—they’ll track them down in minutes.

Why is everything I touch sticky?

I don’t know when exactly my house turned into Willy Wonka’s factory, but I can confirm that stickiness is the default setting now. The table? Sticky. The remote? Sticky. The back of the couch? Sticky. WHY IS THE BACK OF THE COUCH STICKY? It’s like living in a funhouse, except instead of mirrors and laughter, it’s just sugar residue and confusion.

So yes, Mommy had her week of “grown-up fun” with golf, networking, and volunteering. But the real highlight? Coming home to my very own circus where the floor is a puddle, someone is probably chewing on a LEGO, and my hands stick to everything like I’m Spider-Man.

Parenting isn’t glamorous. It’s messy. It’s loud. It’s sticky. But it sure keeps the blog material coming.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go Clorox-wipe the ceiling fan—because apparently, that’s sticky too.

Let me paint you a picture: It’s a beautiful sunny day. Not a cloud in the sky. Not too humid with a slight breeze. I showed up with the best intentions and maybe a bit too much confidence in my outdoorsy abilities. Four hours of community service in nature? Easy. I even wore sunscreen and brought water. A pro.

But here’s what I didn’t factor in: corn stalks are aggressive.

Almost immediately, I managed to whack myself in the face with one. Twice. They may look like innocent plants, but those leafy sabers have attitude. One minute you’re reaching for a cob, and the next, you’re getting blindsided like you’re in a nature-themed WWE match.

Also, I was told I don’t sweat—I glisten. And let me tell you: I was glistening so hard I could’ve powered a disco ball. My shirt turned into a wearable sponge, my hat gave up on life around hour two, and I discovered muscles I didn’t know existed every time break the stem off the cob.

Despite the botanical beatdown, there was something incredibly grounding (pun intended) about being in the field. The fresh air (minus the stalks attacking me), the sound of nature, and the collective energy of volunteers working for a purpose—it hits differently. Every ear of corn picked meant a step closer to feeding families in need. And that makes the glistening and the accidental self-smacking totally worth it.

Also, not to brag, but I got pretty good at spotting the perfect corn—golden, plump, slightly rebellious-looking. I now have corn intuition. Resume-worthy, honestly.

By the time we wrapped up, I was tired, sticky, and completely at peace. There’s something special about knowing your sweat (sorry—glow) went toward something bigger than yourself. Plus, I’m pretty sure my body now knows how farmers feel, and I have a new respect for corn harvesters everywhere.

Would I do it again? Absolutely!

Would I bring a helmet next time? Maybe.

Moral of the story? Volunteering is awesome. Corn stalks are mildly violent. And I officially glisten with purpose.

#CRAApproved #CornQueen #FarmLifeChooseMe #GlowForGood