Tag: everyday life

Last Sunday, I ended Sunday Things by asking for one very simple thing:

Significantly fewer bodily fluids.

And eggs.

Specifically—

no more fucking eggs.

😂

I am pleased to report that nobody vomited eggs on my phone this week.

So.

Technically?

The universe listened.

Barely.

Because there was still poop.

There was pee.

There were period cramps from the depths of hell.

There was a four-year-old licking sprinkles directly off my kitchen counter.

There was one toddler practically living inside my personal space.

Another toddler choosing violence.

A vacuum that somehow began sounding like a motorcycle.

A Medusa doorbell that nearly killed me.

A $115 grocery trip for macaroni and cheese—

in which I did not buy macaroni and cheese.

And somewhere in the middle of all that, I apparently opened the daycare again.

😂

The weird part?

Monday and Tuesday started suspiciously well.

Like—

too well.

All three kids behaved.

Doodoo didn’t cry when my sister left.

Pooh Boy listened.

Sissy shared.

Everybody ate breakfast without attempting to overthrow the government.

There was one hitting incident, but Doodoo sat in timeout, eventually signed sorry, gave Pooh Boy a hug, climbed into my lap—

and promptly took a nap.

Apparently accountability is exhausting when you’re one.

😂

Tuesday was basically the same.

Sissy punched Doodoo because his leg was interfering with her Twist and Twirl.

Naturally.

But after a quick conversation, she hugged him and apologized.

Then Pooh Boy wanted a hug.

Then Doodoo wanted another hug.

And somehow discipline turned into a full-blown group hug.

I was sitting there thinking:

Who are these children?

And what have you done with the tiny feral people I usually babysit?

I should have known better than to ask.

Because Wednesday arrived.

And Sissy had apparently been awake since 3 A.M.

Ah.

There they are.

😂

Wednesday morning included her standing in a completely dark bathroom waiting for me to turn the light on despite the fact that she has a push-light specifically because she cannot reach the switch.

A light she uses regularly.

A light she knows how to use.

A light she was apparently pretending had never existed before in her life.

Then came breakfast.

She ate a few baby pancakes.

Declared herself full.

Gave the rest to Pooh Boy.

Pooh Boy took approximately one bite.

Sissy looked directly at me and said:

“I’m hungry.”

Ma’am.

😭

I offered waffles.

No.

Smoked sausage?

No.

“What do you want?”

“Chips.”

It was eight o’clock in the morning.

Absolutely fucking not.

So she stopped speaking to me.

Until, several minutes later, she suddenly yelled:

“I DID answer you! I said I want baby waffles!”

Girl.

No, you did not.

😂

We eventually made the waffles.

Everybody ate.

Everybody survived.

And I discovered the greatest childcare innovation of my adult life:

Clay in the kitchen.

Put Sissy in the kitchen.

Give her some clay.

Set the toy piano up as a tiny table.

And suddenly?

Peace.

She loves it.

I love it.

The boys get to nap.

Nobody needs to speak to anybody.

Honestly, I should patent this.

---

☕ This Week’s Comfort

My recliner.

Specifically—

five quiet minutes in my recliner.

Monday, after the kids left, I cleaned up the toys and sat down before dealing with the laundry.

Just five minutes.

No one climbing on me.

No one asking for snacks.

No one yelling:

“NEENEE!”

No one licking me.

Yes.

That happened later in the week.

Apparently personal boundaries mean nothing when you are beloved by toddlers.

😂

I just sat there rocking.

Listening to the little click of the recliner.

And instead of changing the television after the kids left—

I continued watching Cookie Monster’s Foodie Truck.

By myself.

Like a grown woman.

☠️

It was 11:30 in the morning.

And those five minutes were wonderful.

Later in the week, the recliner became something else.

Saturday, after spending basically the entire day dismantling, transporting, rebuilding, and installing a giant swing set while simultaneously starting my period—

ON TIME.

Let me repeat that.

ON. FUCKING. TIME.

Who even does that!?

My period is never on time.

Apparently she decided this month was the month to become punctual.

While I was doing manual labor.

Love that for me.

🥲

By that evening, my lower back hurt all the way down through my knees.

A hot shower didn’t help.

Pain medicine barely helped.

I was crying.

My sister came over, saw me, immediately knew what was wrong, and when I asked my boyfriend to hand me Sissy’s car seat so I could take it outside, she basically said:

Absolutely not.

She took both car seats.

Carried them outside.

Put them back in my car.

And would not let me lift a finger.

Doodoo wanted to stay the night again.

And for once, I had to tell him no.

Not because I didn’t want him.

Because I hurt.

And I needed one night where I wasn’t responsible for a baby.

That sucked.

But sometimes loving somebody also means knowing when you have absolutely nothing left to give them that night.

So I made my boyfriend get out of the recliner.

😂

Blanket.

Heating pad.

Recliner.

Done.

And Sunday?

When the kids finally went home after spending most of the day outside on their brand-new swing set, my boyfriend offered me the recliner before I even asked.

So apparently this week’s comfort wasn’t just the chair.

It was the little pocket of quiet I kept trying to find inside it.

Sometimes five minutes.

Sometimes an entire evening.

But enough to hear myself think again.

---

📸 Through My Lens

If I could keep one photograph from this week, it would probably be the kids outside today.

Because yesterday?

That backyard looked like a construction site.

😂

We found a huge swing set online.

Slide.

Five different swings.

The whole thing normally costs somewhere around $677.

I paid:

$25.

TWENTY-FIVE DOLLARS.

And the woman threw in a little playhouse and a bouncy horse.

Listen.

I don’t know what kind of financial blessing descended upon me Saturday morning, but I was not asking questions.

Load it up.

😂

Of course, getting it home was an entirely different story.

Three trips.

Another trip because we brought the wrong tools.

Taking the thing apart.

Loading it.

Unloading it.

Putting it back together.

Cleaning the playhouse.

My boyfriend.

Mawmaw Nesi.

Me.

And, apparently, my uterus actively trying to escape my body in protest.

But we got it done.

And today?

The kids played on it for hours.

They had water bottles.

I brought the hose out.

They ran through the water.

They swung.

They climbed.

They went down the slide.

And somehow, after the absolute war zone that was Friday—

Sissy and both boys played beautifully together.

Sissy shared her food.

They took turns.

She went down the slide with Doodoo.

They hugged each other.

Nobody got dragged across the floor by their hair.

Which, yes, is a sentence I have to specify after Friday.

😂

At one point I just stood there looking at them and thought:

I should’ve gotten one of these a long time ago.

There’s something about watching kids play outside until they’re filthy, exhausted, sweaty, wet from the hose, and completely happy.

Doodoo refused to nap because apparently sleep was less important than the playground.

He made it approximately one street away after my sister picked him up before passing out in the car.

😂

If I could photograph the feeling instead of the actual scene, though?

It would probably be:

Wet little clothes.

Tiny bare feet.

Kids taking turns.

Someone laughing.

Someone asking to go higher.

A giant swing set we somehow got for twenty-five dollars.

And three little people who played hard enough that tonight—

hopefully—

they sleep like the dead.

😂

---

💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying

I spent a lot of this week asking for two minutes.

Literally.

Two.

Minutes.

Thursday morning, all three kids were on me at once.

One tapping me.

One nuzzling me.

One licking me.

Everybody saying:

“NeeNee.”

Over.

And over.

And over.

At one point I seriously considered changing my name.

😂

Later, I tried to put Pooh Boy down for a nap.

Sissy wanted to help.

Sweet.

Doodoo had his head practically lodged in my ass the entire time.

Less sweet.

I sat him in the recliner so I could take approximately two seconds to hand Sissy her clay.

He acted like I had abandoned him on the side of the interstate.

Then I finally got him calmed down in my lap.

And immediately:

“NeeNee?”

“Yes, Sissy?”

“I had an accident.”

Poop.

Of course.

So now I have to put Doodoo down again.

He’s screaming.

Pooh Boy sounds like he’s headbutting the bedroom wall.

I’m cleaning Sissy.

We come back into the living room.

Doodoo has somehow unplugged the Fire Stick and is smacking the television because, apparently, he was attempting to repair Jurassic Park.

The remote has disappeared.

Sissy’s panties need washed.

Pooh Boy is still doing whatever demolition project he has started in the bedroom.

And all I could think was:

I just need two fucking minutes.

That thought stuck with me.

Because I love being needed.

I really do.

I love that Doodoo reaches for me.

I love that Sissy wants to bake cakes with me.

I love that Pooh Boy climbs all over everything I own and apparently believes gravity is merely a suggestion.

I love feeding them.

Bathing them.

Watching movies with them.

Taking them outside.

Letting them destroy my house.

Buying them a ridiculous swing set.

I love that Doodoo will go home, spend ten minutes there, see me again, climb into my arms, look at his mother and say:

“Bye-bye.”

😂

But being loved doesn’t magically mean you never get overwhelmed.

Being needed doesn’t mean you never need space.

And taking care of people does not mean you are supposed to keep giving until there is absolutely nothing left.

Saturday reminded me of that.

I was hurting.

Really hurting.

Doodoo wanted to stay.

Normally?

I probably would’ve said yes.

But I couldn’t.

And I hated telling him no.

Still—

I needed to.

Because sometimes the two minutes you’ve been asking everybody else for eventually have to become:

Not tonight.

Sometimes you need somebody else to carry the car seat.

Sometimes you need the recliner.

Sometimes you need everybody to please stop touching you.

Sometimes you need to admit:

I love you very much, but I have reached my limit for today.

And maybe that isn’t selfish.

Maybe that’s just how you make sure there’s something left of you tomorrow.

---

❤️ This Week’s Gratitude

This week’s gratitude is for the people who step in.

Not necessarily in huge dramatic ways.

Just—

step in.

My sister taking those car seats from me because she could see I was hurting.

Mawmaw Nesi helping me fix the vacuum after my mom couldn’t come back.

Even though the vacuum then sounded like a motorcycle.

😂

My mom eventually coming over and helping us figure out that apparently the ancient clump of hair wrapped around the vacuum brush had been performing some kind of structural-support function.

Yes.

You read that correctly.

I cleaned the vacuum—

and made it worse.

☠️

Apparently the vacuum is so old that the hair was holding one end of the brush together.

So now we’ve bought it a new brush because my boyfriend refuses to replace the entire vacuum.

Fine.

We are apparently restoring a historical artifact.

😂

I’m grateful for my boyfriend coming home exhausted from work and still helping wherever he could.

And for getting to return that care a little too.

One night he came home filthy from tires, burned fingers, completely worn out, and said he needed a shower but didn’t even have the energy for one.

So—

princess treatment.

Bubble bath.

I washed him.

The man basically had to do nothing except occasionally raise an arm.

😂

And somehow, in the same week, he made something completely new for dinner.

Chicken sliders.

Not one of his safe foods.

NEW FOOD.

AND HE LIKED THEM.

I almost needed to document the date and time for historical records.

😂

I’m grateful for my sister calling.

My mom helping when she can.

Mawmaw Nesi magically retrieving Sissy’s phone from behind the couch and allowing us to convince a four-year-old that Mawmaw possesses supernatural abilities.

My work kid getting on the phone long enough for me to say hi before I go back Tuesday after being gone for a month.

And all the tiny ways people around here keep taking care of each other.

Sometimes I’m the one doing it.

Sometimes somebody else is.

And this week reminded me that both matter.

---

😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”

THE MEDUSA DOORBELL.

There were a lot of contenders this week.

The $115 macaroni-and-cheese trip where I forgot the macaroni and cheese.

The vacuum motorcycle.

Sissy licking sprinkles off the counter.

The boys waking up Friday and apparently choosing organized crime.

But no.

The Medusa doorbell wins.

My sister bought a Halloween doorbell.

Cool.

Cute.

Festive.

It’s this gray plastic Medusa face with snakes in her hair and a little red button underneath.

She’s holding it while I’m talking.

She doesn’t interrupt me.

Just kind of presents the button.

So naturally, without stopping my story, I reach over and press it.

I assumed it would play Halloween music.

Maybe scream.

Maybe say something spooky.

I was wrong.

Very wrong.

Within approximately three seconds—

Medusa’s little snake tongue SHOOTS OUT and licks my finger.

The doorbell screams:

DING DONG!

Her eyes start flashing red.

Then she starts EVIL LAUGHING.

And apparently my body interpreted this as an actual venomous attack because my heart immediately relocated to my asshole, my soul exited through the ceiling, I jerked my hand back like I had been bitten and yelled:

“OW! MOTHERFUCKER!”

😭😂

My sister is laughing so hard she can’t breathe.

Pooh Boy is running for protection.

Doodoo is hiding by the couch because he wants absolutely nothing to do with Medusa—

but is also laughing at me for getting scared.

Traitor.

☠️

Poor Pooh Boy got so scared that he would not let me put him down afterward.

So I eventually left my sister’s house carrying him.

He stayed the night.

All because I pushed a fucking doorbell.

😂

I would also like to point out that this happened during the same week that I spent an entire day watching true-crime documentaries.

Monday afternoon, I ate cold mini ravioli straight from the can while watching Motherly Instinct show crime-scene photos involving the murder of a pregnant woman.

Nothing says:

bon appétit

quite like homicide.

Then that evening Mawmaw Nesi joined me for Worst Neighbor Ever.

We’re sitting there watching it.

Door cracked open.

Both cars outside.

Suddenly:

knock knock.

We pause.

Look at each other.

Look at the door.

Look back at each other.

There was an actual moment where we considered closing the already-open door and pretending nobody was home.

Despite the fact that whoever was outside could literally watch us do it.

😂

She finally answered.

It was a door-to-door salesman.

Selling—

HOME SECURITY.

Sir.

Your timing could not possibly be worse.

Or better.

I don’t know.

😂

Anyway.

We declined.

Closed the door.

And went back to watching Worst Neighbor Ever.

As one does.

---

Now it’s Sunday evening.

The kids are gone.

Their wet clothes are in the washer.

The giant swing set is standing in the backyard.

My period is still here, although thankfully today has been much less painful than yesterday.

I am curled up in the recliner.

My boyfriend is playing Palworld with his best friend.

And unlike last Sunday—

nothing has been vomited onto my phone.

So already?

Improvement.

😂

This week somehow included:

Three kids.

A suspiciously peaceful Monday and Tuesday.

A four-year-old running on approximately four hours of sleep.

Potty victories.

Potty accidents.

Baby pancakes.

Baby waffles.

Clay.

A pink, blue, and purple swirl cake.

Sissy licking the counter.

Bubble-bath ball pits.

A broken vacuum.

A replacement vacuum belt.

A replacement vacuum brush.

A vacuum that sounds like it belongs in a motorcycle gang.

Princess-treatment bubble baths.

Chicken sliders.

McDonald’s.

A magical Mawmaw.

A tire.

A busted jack.

Big Bertha, the hundred-pound jack.

A $25 playground.

A playhouse.

A bouncy horse.

Sunburns.

Period cramps.

And approximately seven thousand repetitions of:

“NeeNee.”

At some point Friday, the boys completely lost their minds.

Doodoo was climbing onto tables and digging through ashtrays.

Pooh Boy grabbed Sissy by the hair and started dragging her across the floor.

There was biting.

Hitting.

Headbutting.

Kicking.

Screaming.

Things flying through the air.

Me saying:

“No.”

“STOP.”

“Put it down.”

“Give it back.”

“Leave her alone.”

And in the middle of all this—

Sissy was calmly singing:

“The Itsy Bitsy Spider.”

😭😂

That may actually be the most accurate representation of this entire week.

Chaos happening everywhere.

And somebody in the middle of it just—

singing.

Maybe that’s what Sunday Things has always been, really.

Not the huge moments.

Not the perfect ones.

Just life happening loudly around us.

Someone needs something.

Someone is hungry even though they ate twelve minutes ago.

Someone is crying.

Someone is laughing.

Someone is probably doing something they absolutely should not be doing.

There are toys everywhere.

There are wet clothes in the washer.

There is always another load of laundry coming.

And sometimes I need everybody to stop touching me for two fucking minutes.

😂

But the house is full.

And tonight, for a little while anyway—

it’s quiet.

So I’m staying right here.

In my recliner.

I am not cleaning anything else.

I am not building anything else.

I am not fixing anything else.

I am absolutely not moving that playhouse tonight.

And if somebody needs something?

They can become Monday’s problem.

Wait.

No.

We tried that already.

😂

Until next time,

—Destiny

P.S. I asked for fewer bodily fluids this week. Technically, I got them. Apparently I should’ve also specified fewer headbutts, broken appliances, surprise Medusa attacks, and toddlers inside my personal space. 😂