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.
My daughter has a birthday party to go to tomorrow. And, in true me fashion, it’s 8:00 PM and I’m just now heading to Walmart to get a present.
“What do you even buy a 6-year-old boy?” I mutter to myself, wandering into the toy section like a lost sheep. I settle on a super cool remote control car. Gift acquired. I could’ve walked away victorious.
But then…Out of the corner of my eye:
Nerf guns.
A whole wall of them.
There’s a 3-pack on clearance for 10 bucks! I mean, come on — that’s practically a sign from the universe. Into the cart they go. Then I figure, what’s a few extra darts? Add another $10 in ammo.
And while I’m there — might as well grab the stuff to make homemade ice cream. And cookies. Because cookies.
Now I’m rolling out of there with toys, weapons, dessert ingredients — basically the starter pack for the most chaotic Saturday ever.
Driving home, I seriously consider busting into the house Nerf guns blazing…But the middle child is asleep. Foiled.
I tell my husband about my late-night haul. He doesn’t even blink. Just says:
“Where’s mine?”
I sure do love that man.
And now guess who’s going back to Walmart… because apparently we’re all getting Nerf guns.
You know that friend who got arrested once, spent the night in jail, and was like, “I am NEVER stepping out of line again?” Yeah… meanwhile, I’m over here like, “Sign me up—72-hour hold sounds like a spa weekend.”
Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids. I do. I chose this chaos. But some days? Some days, I look at my husband and think, “How are we still alive?”
So today, my husband and I were doing what we love—tinkering with our beloved FJ Cruiser. We swapped out the O2 sensors, slapped on some ridiculously sexy red lug nuts (IYKYK), and we’re in the zone.
Enter: Thaddeus.
Oh, Thaddeus. My middle child. The one who turns every mundane task into an Olympic-level endurance event for my sanity.
He sees the impact drill and, of course, wants to help. Super cute, right? The first couple of times? Adorable. “Thanks for helping, buddy!”
By the second wheel, he’s ditched us entirely and is digging to China in the gravel driveway. So I pick up the drill and do the next wheel myself. Suddenly, from twenty feet away:
MELTDOWN.
“I WANTED TO DO THE RED ONES!!”
I’m standing there like, Seriously, dude? You were mining gravel a second ago.
And that sets off the barrage:
“Are you gonna let me do the next one?”
“Can I have a snack?”
“Can you make me lemonade?”
“What are we doing after this?”
“Can you watch me ride the scooter?”
“Can I have some of your soda?”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Are you making mac and cheese?”
“Can we sleep in the camper tonight?”
“What if a snake crawled into the camper??”
And on. And on. And on.
By the time dinner rolls around—homemade chicken fried rice, thank you very much—I tell the fam I’m running to the store. Quick trip. In and out.
Then Jazmyn goes, “Can I come with you?”
“No, baby.”
“Why not?”
“Because mommy needs a minute to herself.”
“But I want to come with you!”
“Baby girl, I love you—but if mommy doesn’t get five minutes alone, she’s going to completely unravel in aisle 7 next to the cereal.”
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why my wonderful, patient husband stays home with the kids… and I go to work.
So tell me—anyone else got a Thaddeus in their life? Or am I just raising the next reality TV star slash chaos coordinator?
Remember when dropping your kid off at school meant slowing the car down just enough for them to leap out like a secret agent and make a run for the playground? Back in our day, the morning drop-off was a breeze. No cones, no staff with radios, no complicated traffic patterns—just “have fun, don’t eat dirt,” and a honk for good luck.
Now? Oh, we’re living in the Age of the Drop-Off Line. The high-stakes, slow-moving, caffeine-fueled Hunger Games of suburban parenting.
Let’s review the rules, shall we?
Don’t line up a minute before 8:40.
I know your car’s warm and your podcast is on, but this isn’t a tailgate. You’re not camping out for concert tickets. Sit in a side street like the rest of us and merge like a grown-up.
Don’t. Get. Out. Of. The. Car.
I promise your child can unbuckle themselves and shut the door. We believe in them. They believe in themselves. Let’s not have 30 parents behind you watch you slowly open the trunk, retrieve a backpack, a water bottle, a violin, and a science fair tri-fold like you’re unloading at the airport.
Kids only exit on the passenger side.
Not the driver’s side. Not the sunroof. Not teleportation. The passenger side. Please.
Keep. The. Line. Moving.
This is not the time to give a pep talk, check their socks, or remind them to eat lunch. That’s what last night was for. Today, the goal is swift separation.
Now, I get it. You want your kid to have a smooth, safe start to their day. We all do. But somewhere between “be home when the streetlights come on” and “text me when you breathe,” we got a little… extra.
Are kids really in more danger now? Or are we just on constant high alert because our phones can notify us of anything, anywhere, instantly?
When we were kids, our parents let us roam free. We played on rusty metal playgrounds, climbed trees without supervision, used our backpacks as sleds in the winter and drank out of the hose in summer. And we turned out mostly fine (minus that one scar everyone has from something).Now we live in a world where it feels like if you’re not hand-delivering your kid to the classroom door with a protein-packed bento box and an emotional support llama, you’re doing it wrong.
But maybe—just maybe—we can chill. Let the kids hop out, wave goodbye, and strut into school like the mini rockstars they are. Let’s reclaim a little of that old-school magic. Maybe the kids will still be alright…
Here’s the thing no one tells you: Breastfeeding doesn’t just take your time, energy, and sleep — it takes your body. Specifically, your boobs.
They go from being something personal, sensual, maybe even fun… to being completely utilitarian. Milk taps. Comfort stations. Teething toys.
You spend months — or years — with people touching, tugging, and leaking all over your chest. And it’s all worth it, yes. But when it’s over?
You’re left with boobs that feel like strangers. Used, tired, and no longer yours.
So I did what any mom on the edge of rediscovery might do.
I got my nipples pierced again.
I walked into the piercing studio thinking I’d be getting two brand-new piercings. Clean slate. Fresh start. But the piercer looked at me and said,
“Actually, one of these looks like it might still be open. We can just stretch it and slide the jewelry in.”
Sounds quick and easy, right?Wrong.
Stretching a half-healed piercing is a level of pain I was not prepared for. It felt like dragging hot wire through sensitive scar tissue — slow, sharp, and deeply unpleasant. Honestly? I would’ve taken the needle twice over that.
The other side, freshly pierced with the proper needle, was honestly better. Still painful, sure, but it was clean. Sharp. Purposeful. Something I could brace for.
And afterward, I couldn’t stop thinking about it:
One side reopened. One side brand new.
One revisited. One reclaimed.
One part of me returning. One part becoming something else.
The Symbolism in the Sting…As strange as it sounds, that imbalance — one stretch, one fresh — felt perfect.
It mirrored everything I’d been feeling post-breastfeeding. My body isn’t what it used to be, but it’s not ruined. It’s not broken. It’s a mix of old and new, scarred and strong, stretched and healing.One side reminded me of who I was before motherhood — a little rebellious, a little bold, choosing what made me feel powerful.The other side felt like a quiet rebellion after motherhood — a way of saying:
“Yes, I’ve given so much. But now, I’m taking something back.”
If you’ve been thinking about reclaiming your body in some way—whether it’s a piercing, a tattoo, a workout goal, or just sleeping in on a Sunday—you deserve it!
You’re not being selfish. You’re being human.
Getting my nipples repierced didn’t undo the years of breastfeeding or erase the stretch marks or change the fact that my boobs are a little softer now. But it did remind me that I’m still in here. That I still get to decide what feels good, what looks good, and what makes me feel like me.
Our bodies tell stories. Mine has been a vessel of love, nourishment, exhaustion, and resilience. Adding a little sparkle back into that story? That was just the plot twist I needed.
So here’s to motherhood. Here’s to survival. And here’s to shiny little reminders that we’re still our own damn selves, even after all the giving.
It’s 6:03 PM. I walk through the door carrying a work bag, a toddler’s sock, and what’s left of my sanity.
Before I can even kick off my shoes, the baby starts crying — the loud, dramatic kind that says how dare you ever leave me. The 6-year-old is already mid-cartwheel while talking a million miles an hour about her first day of school. “MOM. So then I told her NO, you cannot erase my unicorn!” She’s upside down. She’s sideways. She’s yelling. She’s jazzed.
The 3-year-old is singing something — I don’t know what, but it’s loud. He is singing at me. With feeling. Possibly in a foreign language or one he made up.
The dog is doing laps across the hardwood floor, click-clacking like a one-dog tap dance troupe that nobody invited.
And then it starts.
“I’m hunnnngryyyy.” “Can I have a snack?” “Can I have juice?” “Can I, can I, can I, MOMMMMMMMM!”
I haven’t peed since noon. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. I forgot to drink water. My left eye is twitching. I open the fridge and stare into the void. There’s half a yogurt, a leftover meatball from last week (maybe?), and something in tinfoil I’m too afraid to open.
I think I took out chicken this morning. Maybe I dreamed it. Maybe we’ll have cereal.
I’m answering questions, holding a crying baby, trying to find Paw Patrol, opening a granola bar with one hand, and internally spiraling about how I’m supposed to cook dinner, give everyone attention, stay patient, and also be a functioning human being who doesn’t cry into the sink.
But I do it. Messy, late, loud, chaotic. Dinner happens — maybe it’s grilled cheese, maybe it’s leftover noodles, maybe it’s a sad quesadilla made from two corners of two different cheese bags. Who cares.
I am everywhere at once and somehow still feel like I’m not enough anywhere. But I keep going. Because that’s what moms do.
It’s beautiful and exhausting and sometimes I just want to hide in the bathroom for seven minutes with a glass of wine and nobody knocking on the door asking if bees have bones.
So if you’re in it too — if the soundtrack of your evening is crying + cartwheels + snack demands + dog nails on hardwood — just know you’re not alone.
We’re out here doing our best in the middle of the mess. And sometimes, cereal for dinner is doing your best.
You’ve got this, even if you don’t feel like you do.
Share a story about the furthest you’ve ever traveled from home.
Freshman year of high school my choir went to London. I spent months fundraising. I am sure that my parents “donated” a sizeable sum in order for me and my father to go.
Let’s talk about my father for a second. He is super supportive and would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. He is also the most hardworking person I know. I blame him for my need to be constantly busy. All through childhood he worked his full time day job. He also had a part time job delivering pizzas, was captain of the softball team, dartball team, and on church council. He read us adventure books…Sherlock Holmes, Lord of the Rings, the Hobbit….. every night. He’s amazing. He is also quite possibly the worst communicator I have ever met.
One day at youth group, all the girls decided they were all going to play on the softball team captained by none other than my dear sweet dad. I was not athletic nor competitive. I am also more likely to run away from the ball than try to catch it. I told everyone no I was not joining the softball team. So my dad picks us up from youth group and every one is yelling Paul! Paul! You have to make Laura join the softball team. My father being the stellar communicator he is says ” I don’t want her on my team!” To all my friends….YEARS of therapy later….I can confidently say that my father meant I am not going to make her play of she doesn’t want to play. But you better believe we all make fun of him for it every chance we can.
Moving on…my father decides to chaperone the choir trip and we all go to London. Given the volatility of our relationship, it is surprising that angsty teenage Laura was okay with this but I remember it being really great to have him along. We sang in cathedrals and took castle tours. Durring free time dad and I walked around London sometimes just the two of us. It was the closest I had ever felt to him. One of our excursions took us to Portabello road which brought me back to my childhood watching Bedknobs and Broomsticks….my father decided to buy this ridiculous hat and wore it everywhere after that day. I complained everytime he put it on. It was an amazing trip! Embarrassing hat and all.
