Author: bananafudgenut

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.

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.