destinylaharris

Category: Sunday things

  • Sunday Things #9

    This week felt like my body and my life were operating on two completely different schedules.

    My body wanted heating pads, pain patches, hot baths, a recliner, and for everybody to leave me the hell alone.

    My life said:

    Cool. Anyway, you’re going back to work. The kids miss you. Your sister needs help. There are dinosaurs to watch. Somebody is going to walk UP a slide. And apparently you’re going to end the week at a spontaneous photoshoot.

    😅

    I started the week on my period, which is exhausting enough on its own, but now that I know I have both a fibroid and endometriosis, I’ve been doing what any curious person with access to Google does:

    Looking up all the weird shit my body does and going,

    Ohhhhh. So THAT’S why.

    😂

    The lower back pain.

    The constant urge to pee.

    The horrible cramping when I poop.

    The extra bleeding when I do.

    Apparently, my body has explanations for things I’ve just been suffering through for years.

    And listen—

    period poops are already the WORST.

    I do not need two separate medical conditions working together to make them worse. 😮‍💨

    Sunday was actually surprisingly good for day two of my period. I barely hurt all day, and I had even slept through the entire night before—which is WILD for me because I’m normally up and down for the first two or three nights because I’m hurting so badly.

    Then I pooped.

    And apparently that was enough to ruin everybody’s good time.

    😂

    By 4:30 Monday morning, I was hurting badly enough that I ended up taking an hour-long nap on the toilet so I could free bleed.

    Obviously.

    Nobody ever talks about how much passing period clots can fucking hurt, either.

    This period was super clotty, and whether that had anything to do with recently having surgery or not, I have no idea.

    I just know:

    boy, I was in pain.

    I finally fell back asleep around 7 and slept until 11:30.

    Thankfully, my sister had asked Mom to watch the kids that day because I really just could not.

    I remembered that the hysterectomy belt my boyfriend’s mom gave me had heating/cooling pads in it, popped those bad boys in the microwave for thirty seconds on each side, and discovered that I basically own a portable heating pad.

    Guess who’s taking that bitch to work?

    🤷🏻‍♀️😂

    Tuesday morning?

    4 AM.

    Again.

    More pain.

    More soaking in the bathtub.

    And eventually a PTO day because there was absolutely no way I was going back to work like that.

    At one point, I was so over the pain that I genuinely thought about asking my boyfriend if he would be okay with adopting because I just—

    cannot keep doing this.

    I’m ready for them to get this stuff taken care of.

    My periods are exhausting.

    Physically.

    Emotionally.

    All of it.

    But somewhere between all the heating pads, pain patches, baths, and me refusing to leave the recliner unless absolutely necessary…

    the rest of my life kept happening anyway.

    And somehow, by the end of the week, there was a whole lot of good mixed in with the hurting.

    ☕ This Week’s Comfort

    This one is easy.

    My heating pad.

    😮‍💨

    That thing and I have been in a committed relationship all week.

    Monday, it was the heating pads from the hysterectomy belt.

    Tuesday, I basically lived in the recliner with my heating pad and only got up when I absolutely needed to.

    And then Doodoo showed up.

    He was asleep when Mom brought him over, and when he came inside, he looked at me, climbed into my lap, and immediately went right back to sleep.

    I sat him on my stomach.

    And somehow?

    His weight actually helped.

    So I leaned the recliner back with this sleeping baby sprawled across me and got maybe thirty or forty-five minutes where I wasn’t hurting much at all.

    I was almost asleep myself before the other two came inside.

    😂

    Apparently Doodoo is also a heating pad.

    A significantly heavier one.

    With legs.

    And opinions.

    But I’ll take what I can get.

    📷 Through My Lens

    I think my favorite part of this week happened today.

    I took Doodoo home early, came back, cleaned the living room, got myself ready, and headed to my friend’s house.

    And then we just drove around and took pictures.

    No real plan.

    Just a spontaneous photoshoot.

    She took me to 420 Road, which is apparently basically a mile of road where people go to spray paint.

    I had never been there before today.

    Then we went to take pictures with planes coming in.

    😂

    And it was actually really fucking fun.

    After spending the beginning of the week barely wanting to leave my recliner, ending it out driving around, finding weird places, and taking pictures felt good.

    I love photography.

    I love finding interesting things to photograph.

    And apparently I also love standing around waiting for airplanes to fly over me.

    Who knew?

    😂

    💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying

    I don’t think you always realize how much you’re part of somebody else’s routine until you disappear from it for a while.

    Wednesday was finally my first day back at work.

    And all morning I heard:

    “Welcome back.”

    “Where have you been?”

    “I thought you weren’t working here anymore.”

    “Are you okay now?”

    “What happened?”

    “You’ve been missed.”

    I didn’t tell everybody where I was going before I left.

    Honestly, I only really talk to maybe five people there anyway. The people who mattered knew I had surgery and knew I was going to be gone for a month.

    I wasn’t about to make some giant announcement or walk around campus telling everybody individually.

    😂

    But apparently people noticed.

    And then I got on my kiddo’s bus.

    He stood up.

    Looked at me.

    Looked at the bus monitor.

    Looked back at me.

    And just—

    smiled.

    This huge smile.

    🤣

    He genuinely looked flabbergasted for a second.

    Like his brain needed a minute to process:

    Wait.

    She’s back?!

    Then he finally remembered he was supposed to grab his bag and get off the bus.

    He spent the rest of the day running back over to me for hugs and back scratches.

    Although I’m pretty sure he missed my nails more than he actually missed me.

    😂

    And apparently he wasn’t the only one.

    Wednesday evening, Sissy and Doodoo called wanting apples.

    So obviously I grabbed my last three apples, a Fudge Round, and a Nutty Bar and went over there.

    We played.

    Had a little dance party.

    Snuggled.

    And at one point I had a kid on each hip while another one tried climbing up my leg, slipped on my pajama pants, and pulled my pants down with him.

    ☠️🤣

    My sister had to pull them back up for me.

    When I left, Pooh Boy threw a tantrum because he wanted to stay the night.

    Then Thursday morning my sister told me he’d been up crying because he wanted to stay with me.

    😭

    And Thursday night, after Doodoo and Pooh Boy spent the evening at my house, Mom took them home.

    I was still on the phone with my sister when they pulled up, and Doodoo was crying.

    He had been perfectly fine when he left my house, so I asked what happened.

    My sister opened his door.

    And there he was, crying:

    “Blah Blah!”

    🥲

    Baby.

    I told him I had to work the next day, but I could come get him afterward and he could stay with me all weekend.

    He stopped crying and said okay.

    My babies.

    😭

    It breaks my whole soul when they cry because they want to stay with me and I can’t keep them.

    But between them and my kiddo at work this week, I realized something:

    being missed is a really strange kind of love.

    You aren’t there to see the moment somebody notices you’re gone.

    You just come back and find the space they were holding for you.

    ❤️ This Week’s Gratitude

    This week, I’m grateful that I got to come back.

    Back to work.

    Back to my kiddo.

    Back to some kind of normal routine.

    Even if my body isn’t completely caught up yet.

    Wednesday made that VERY clear.

    My hips and sides were killing me. I only made it two laps around the track before I needed to sit down.

    I don’t know how much of it was from being off my feet for so long, how much was from surgery and still healing, or how much my period was contributing.

    But my body definitely needs some time to get used to being back.

    Thursday, my lower back was in knots badly enough that Mom had to bring me a pain patch at work.

    I didn’t transition my kiddo nearly as much as I probably should have because I was hurting, and he was not thrilled about that.

    Which I understand.

    His routine changed because I couldn’t do what I normally do.

    And meanwhile, Wednesday he had thrown his only tantrum of the day because I told him to take a break from working and go play.

    🤣

    Apparently I returned to a tiny workaholic.

    But despite the pain and despite realizing that getting back to normal might take a little longer than I wanted—

    I got to go back.

    And overall?

    My first day back was really good.

    I’m grateful for that.

    😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”

    I had options this week.

    So many options.

    Doodoo had a pull-up situation that very much justified why we call him Doodoo, while repeatedly announcing:

    “I SHIT!”

    Yes, sir.

    Yes, you did.

    And you stink.

    🤣

    Then there was Doodoo trying to manipulate Mawmaw Nesi into letting him go back outside after I already told him no.

    Me: “You trying to get Mawmaw in trouble?”

    Doodoo:

    “Yeah!”

    At least he’s honest.

    😂

    There was Pooh Boy climbing out of the bathtub by himself.

    There was my vacuum still sounding like a motorcycle until I finally got down on the floor and changed the brush.

    There was my sister dropping her vape into the bathtub.

    There was the return of the Medusa doorbell—which, apparently, I have now learned to weaponize against children.

    “Line up or I’ll push the button!”

    Everybody lined up.

    Somebody started crying in the car?

    I held up Medusa.

    Silence.

    ☠️🤣

    Last week that damn thing scared the absolute shit out of me.

    This week?

    I’m considering buying one.

    Character development.

    🤣

    But none of those win.

    Because Pooh Boy—

    my sweet little Pooh Boy—

    has apparently decided that walking normally is beneath him.

    Thursday, he was outside playing with the Frozen ride-on toy. Mawmaw Nesi had tied a rope around it because the boys can’t figure out how to scoot that particular one across the grass.

    Pooh Boy somehow got the rope wrapped around both arms and one leg.

    He wasn’t hurt.

    He wasn’t in danger.

    He was just tired, frustrated, and apparently convinced that the appropriate response was to roll around in the grass screaming.

    I kept telling him:

    “Pooh Boy, come here and I’ll help you.”

    He’d look at me.

    Reach toward me.

    Cry.

    And then—

    GO BACK TO ROLLING AROUND.

    ☠️

    Eventually, he got unstuck and went back to playing.

    Cool.

    Crisis over.

    I looked down at my phone for approximately two seconds to read a text from my sister.

    I looked back up.

    Mawmaw Nesi was running toward the slide.

    And Pooh Boy was standing—

    STANDING—

    at the top of it.

    Laughing his little ass off.

    He didn’t climb the ladder.

    Mawmaw Nesi watched him.

    HE WALKED STRAIGHT UP THE SLIDE.

    All the way.

    Without falling.

    Sir.

    You cannot take TWO STEPS across solid ground without randomly falling over.

    But you can apparently scale playground equipment like a fucking mountain goat?!

    IN TWO SECONDS?!

    ☠️☠️☠️

    I don’t understand him.

    I have stopped trying.

    And now it’s Sunday night.

    The boys stayed with us this weekend.

    There were a LOT of dinosaurs.

    Doodoo and I watched every Jurassic Park/Jurassic World movie Hulu had on Saturday because that baby loves his dinosaurs. 😂

    My sister touched up my hair.

    The boys got to stay up a little late.

    We all slept until nine this morning.

    Doodoo and I got one more dinosaur cuddle in before I took him home.

    Then I spent the afternoon with my friend taking pictures.

    And naturally, as soon as I got home, my sister called because she needed me to take her to get a new vape after dropping hers in the bathtub.

    😂

    She did get me one of those real-fruit TikTok ice creams, though.

    The mango one.

    And omggggg.

    DELICIOUS.

    Unfortunately, cold things trigger my asthma, so now I’m fighting an asthma attack because apparently even eating ice cream has to come with consequences.

    ☠️

    Stupid body.

    Stupid cold things.

    Stupid asthma.

    And now it’s after seven.

    Dinner still needs to be cooked.

    I’m exhausted.

    And I have work tomorrow.

    But compared with how this week started?

    I’ll take it.

    I started the week curled up in pain, wondering how much longer I can keep doing this.

    I’m ending it with freshly touched-up hair, a camera full of pictures, a weekend full of dinosaurs and babies, and the knowledge that apparently Medusa can control an entire group of children faster than any adult in this family.

    😂

    Not a bad ending.

    Now somebody please cook dinner for me.

    Until next time,

    —Destiny

    P.S. What’s one completely ordinary thing from your week that ended up meaning more to you than you expected?

  • Sunday Things #8

    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. 😂

  • Sunday Things #7

    Last Sunday, I ended Sunday Things by deciding that whatever needed me could become Monday’s problem.

    Apparently Monday took that personally.

    Because Monday arrived, took one look at me, and said:

    Fine.

    YOU can become Monday’s problem.

    😂

    I spent almost the entire beginning of this week sick.

    Not cute sick.

    Not curl up under a blanket with some tea and enjoy a cozy little sick day sick.

    I mean—

    can’t breathe through my nose.

    Ears blocked.

    Coughing.

    Constantly clearing my throat.

    Generally looking and feeling like something that should be quarantined from the public.

    So I did what any responsible adult would do.

    I stayed in bed and watched The Goldbergs.

    For two days.

    😮‍💨

    Monday night brought a not-so-great moment between my boyfriend and me involving NyQuil, hurt feelings, and one of those arguments where the actual problem becomes significantly larger than the thing that started it.

    We talked about it Tuesday.

    Really talked about it.

    And while conversations don’t magically erase hurt feelings, sometimes understanding each other a little better afterward is enough.

    By Wednesday, I still felt like shit.

    But my poor nose was no longer the biggest thing on my mind because my nephew was getting tubes put in his ears.

    He went back for surgery without his mom.

    And didn’t even cry.

    My poor Doodoo.

    Him so brave. 🥺

    Meanwhile, I was over here losing a fight with my own sinuses.

    So really, one of us handled the week with dignity.

    It was not me.

    By Thursday, I had apparently decided that being sick was no longer a valid excuse to avoid everything I had been putting off.

    I went through my clothes.

    Got rid of a ridiculous amount.

    Gave them to a friend who recently had a baby and needed clothes that actually fit her right now.

    Got to cuddle said adorable baby.

    Cleaned the bedroom.

    Put away most of the clothes.

    Made ribs.

    And somehow managed to feel productive while still breathing exclusively through approximately one nostril.

    Growth.

    😂

    And then Friday arrived.

    And with it—

    children.

    Of course.

    Because apparently my house remains an unlicensed daycare.

    At this point, I should probably just accept it.

    ☕ This Week’s Comfort

    There was something weirdly comforting about television this week.

    Maybe because I spent so much time sick.

    Maybe because when you feel like shit, there is something particularly wonderful about putting on a show that asks absolutely nothing from you.

    Monday and Tuesday, it was The Goldbergs.

    Then Thursday morning, I was sitting there watching Full House.

    Baby Michelle.

    Or, as we called her when we were kids:

    Baby Michelle.

    😂

    And suddenly I remembered sitting around watching Full House before school when I was little.

    Waiting for the bus.

    It wasn’t some huge, important memory.

    Nothing particularly exciting happened in it.

    But for a second, I could almost feel what those mornings felt like.

    Then Saturday morning, I was curled up in the recliner with Doodoo watching Power Rangers Dino Charge.

    Which, by the way—

    I introduced him to it.

    And he LOVES it.

    You’re welcome, child.

    😂

    Then we watched Jurassic Park.

    And somewhere in there, the two of us fell asleep together in the recliner.

    It’s funny how comfort changes as you get older.

    Sometimes it’s watching the shows you loved when you were little.

    And sometimes it’s sitting with a little boy curled against you while you introduce him to things that might someday become part of his childhood memories.

    I like that.

    A lot.

    📸 Through My Lens

    If I could freeze one part of this week into a photograph, I think it would be Saturday evening.

    Not because anything extraordinary happened.

    Actually, quite the opposite.

    Doodoo had already spent most of the day with us.

    We had watched Power Rangers.

    Watched dinosaurs.

    Napped.

    Played outside.

    Played outside some more when Mawmaw Nesi got home.

    Then Uncle came home and apparently looked around at the situation and thought:

    You know what this house needs?

    Another boy.

    😂

    So we went and got my other nephew for the night.

    After dinner, my boyfriend gave both boys a bath while I finished eating.

    Then all five of us ended up in the living room having a dance party while we waited for 8:30 so Doodoo could have his bedtime medicine.

    Nothing fancy.

    Nothing planned.

    Just music.

    Kids dancing.

    Adults being ridiculous.

    Everybody laughing.

    Eventually both boys went to sleep without much of a fight.

    Then my boyfriend and I took turns showering, curled up together, watched an episode of Full House, and went to bed ourselves.

    It had been a long day.

    A loud day.

    An exhausting day.

    And a really fucking good one.

    If I could have photographed the feeling instead of the moment, I think it would have looked something like that.

    A messy living room.

    Two sleepy little boys.

    Music playing.

    Everybody together.

    Home.

    💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying

    I set a boundary with a friend this week.

    One I genuinely didn’t think I should have needed to say out loud.

    But apparently I did.

    So I did.

    He apologized.

    Then told me he was going to “shut up for a while.”

    And I haven’t heard from him since.

    I’m still not entirely sure how I feel about that.

    Because boundaries are weird.

    We talk about them like they’re these incredibly simple things.

    Just communicate.

    Tell people what you’re comfortable with.

    Set boundaries.

    And yes.

    Absolutely.

    But nobody really talks about what happens after you set one.

    Because sometimes you can communicate something calmly and clearly, and the other person can apologize—

    and somehow you’re still left sitting there wondering whether you just damaged the relationship by asking for something you needed.

    I don’t think setting a boundary should automatically create distance.

    And I don’t think telling someone, Hey, this made me uncomfortable, should translate into:

    Fine. Then I just won’t talk to you.

    Those are two very different things.

    Maybe he just needed a little space.

    Maybe I did, too.

    I don’t know yet.

    What I do know is that I don’t regret saying it.

    Because I think there comes a point where keeping the peace with someone else starts costing you peace with yourself.

    And I’m getting a little too old for that trade.

    ❤️ This Week’s Gratitude

    This week’s gratitude is for the ordinary stuff.

    The kind of stuff that doesn’t feel important while it’s happening.

    My niece asking me to take her to the store because she wanted apples.

    So we went and bought apples.

    Then came home.

    And she didn’t want apples anymore.

    Naturally.

    ☠️

    My nephew refusing to sit properly on the couch, flipping off of it, and hitting his head on the table.

    Me calming him down.

    Checking for booboos.

    “Does it hurt?”

    Shakes head no.

    “Was it scary?”

    Nods yes.

    “Are you going to listen and sit your butt on the couch now?”

    Nods yes.

    Lesson learned.

    At least temporarily.

    😂

    Clifford the Big Red Dog.

    Two little kids sitting at the computer with Uncle while he begins the very important work of corrupting the next generation into gamers.

    Bubble baths.

    Ball-pit balls.

    A bowl.

    And an empty conditioner bottle I specifically saved because my niece was upset the last time I committed the unforgivable crime of throwing away an empty body-wash bottle.

    Running around outside until Doodoo was so exhausted that his tantrum about coming inside lasted approximately long enough for him to get into bed and pass out.

    Mawmaw Nesi trying to clean the kitchen and somehow acquiring two tiny assistants.

    Dance parties.

    Cartoons.

    Cuddles.

    Ribs.

    Laundry.

    Kids running through the house.

    My boyfriend on his game.

    Me on the couch.

    Nothing particularly extraordinary.

    Just life happening around me.

    And sometimes I think those are the weeks I’m most grateful for.

    Not because everything went perfectly.

    God knows it didn’t.

    But because there are people in my house.

    There’s noise.

    There’s laughter.

    There are tiny shoes somewhere they absolutely do not belong.

    There are cartoons playing.

    Someone is hungry even though they ate seventeen minutes ago.

    Someone needs something.

    Someone is laughing.

    Someone is yelling.

    Someone is probably getting into something they shouldn’t.

    And someday, I know I’m going to miss the noise.

    So for now?

    I’m grateful for it.

    Even when it’s loud.

    😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”

    Apparently eggs have decided to become recurring characters in Sunday Things.

    I would like them written out of the show.

    Immediately.

    If you remember last week, I had a cake-related mental breakdown that required—

    among other things—

    TWENTY-TWO EGGS.

    I thought that was the end of my egg-related suffering.

    It was not.

    This morning, Doodoo got up coughing.

    Not unusual.

    He hasn’t been feeling great.

    His ears have probably been bothering him since getting his tubes put in, and the poor baby has been cranky.

    Then he started coughing harder.

    And harder.

    And harder.

    Until—

    HE PUKED.

    Okay.

    Fine.

    Kids puke.

    I can handle puke.

    Except he puked:

    On himself.

    On the couch.

    And—

    ON MY FUCKING PHONE.

    🤢

    And do you know what he had eaten?

    Eggs.

    Of course he had.

    FUCKING EGGS.

    😭😂

    I already hate eggs.

    The smell.

    The texture.

    All of it.

    And somehow—

    somehow—

    I have now discovered a version of eggs I hate significantly more.

    Regurgitated eggs.

    On my phone.

    There are experiences in life that change you as a person.

    Marriage.

    Having children.

    Buying your first home.

    Losing someone you love.

    And apparently—

    cleaning egg vomit out of your phone.

    I will never be the same.

    🤮

    Doodoo, meanwhile?

    Fine.

    Of course.

    Because children will violently expel the contents of their stomach onto your personal belongings and then approximately seventeen minutes later be like:

    Anyway, what are we doing today?

    😂

    We had originally talked about taking the boys to the splash pad.

    After the Great Egg Incident of 2026, we decided maybe a chill day inside was the better option.

    And honestly?

    Good call.

    Now it’s Sunday afternoon.

    The boys have napped.

    They’ve eaten.

    Doodoo seems to be feeling better as the day goes on.

    Mawmaw Nesi has somehow turned kitchen cleaning into a group activity.

    Uncle is on his game.

    I’m on the couch.

    The boys are running around the house playing.

    And after spending most of the beginning of this week lying in bed sick, I somehow ended it with two nephews, a niece, multiple sleepovers, Power Rangers, Jurassic Park, dance parties, ball-pit bubble baths, approximately forty-seven meals, and vomited eggs on my phone.

    So.

    Progress?

    😂

    It’s only 1:30 as I’m writing this, but I already know how I want the rest of today to go.

    Take the boys home.

    Come back.

    Put away the rest of the laundry.

    Maybe.

    Let’s not make promises we can’t keep.

    😂

    Update the blog.

    Sit on the couch.

    Watch my boyfriend and his friend play their game.

    Eat dinner.

    Go to bed.

    Nothing exciting.

    Nothing productive.

    Nothing that requires me to clean bodily fluids off an electronic device.

    Just a quiet Sunday evening.

    Because after this week?

    I think I’ve earned one.

    😮‍💨🍷

    Here’s to nice, relaxing Sundays.

    And to next week hopefully containing significantly fewer bodily fluids.

    And eggs.

    Please, for the love of God—

    no more fucking eggs.

    Until next time,

    —Destiny

    P.S. Last week, eggs nearly broke me. This week, they came back for revenge. 😂

  • Sunday Things #6

    I think I accidentally opened a daycare this week.

    I don’t remember applying for a license.

    I don’t remember filling out any paperwork.

    But there were three children in my house for most of the week, somebody was always coughing, somebody was always pooping somewhere they weren’t supposed to, and at one point I had two children sitting in a bathtub full of ball-pit balls.

    So.

    I’m pretty sure that makes it official. 😂

    Last Sunday, I ended Sunday Things by deciding my dirty laundry could become Monday’s problem.

    Apparently Monday saw that and said:

    Oh, you think laundry is your biggest problem? Cute.

    Because this week had everything.

    Sick babies.

    A sick boyfriend.

    Very little sleep.

    Poop.

    Pee.

    Bubble baths.

    A friendship conversation that somehow lasted approximately four business days.

    And a cake that nearly broke me psychologically.

    But before we get to that—

    there was one very important development this week.

    One I have been waiting patiently for.

    Very.

    Patiently.

    ahem.

    SEX IS BACK ON THE TABLE.

    😂😂😂

    After surgery, recovery, restrictions, and my hoohoo essentially being placed on administrative leave, she has officially returned to active duty.

    Was I a little sore afterward?

    Yep.

    Was it worth it?

    BABBBBBYYYYY.

    😂

    Unfortunately, the universe apparently decided once was enough.

    Because immediately afterward, my house became a plague ward full of sick children, sleepovers, coughing, snot, and eventually a sick boyfriend.

    So that was Monday.

    And that was also the end of that.

    😩😂

    Honestly, that pretty much establishes the tone for the entire week.

    ☕ This Week’s Comfort

    The kids.

    Which is a ridiculous answer considering they were also responsible for approximately 87% of the chaos.

    But still.

    My niece and both nephews spent most of the week with me, and somehow my house became their house.

    There were sleepovers.

    Cartoons.

    Cuddles.

    Snot.

    A truly concerning amount of bodily fluids.

    And a ball-pit bubble bath.

    That one happened by accident.

    My niece was trying to poop.

    My nephew was annoying her.

    Naturally, I put him in the bathtub.

    As one does.

    He wanted water.

    Then she wanted in.

    Then she wanted bubbles.

    I didn’t have bath toys.

    But I did have an empty body-wash bottle, a bowl, and an entire bag of ball-pit balls.

    And that is how Ball-Pit Bubble Bath™ was born.

    They loved it.

    More importantly?

    They weren’t getting on my nerves.

    😂

    We did it again Friday.

    Apparently this is just something we do at NeeNee’s house now.

    We also watched The Fairly OddParents, Jurassic Park, and Rugrats.

    Or, more accurately, I watched The Rugrats Movie while one kid slept in the recliner, one slept in the playpen, and another sat on the potty.

    I looked around at one point and thought:

    Yep.

    This seems about right.

    There was also something really sweet about watching my boyfriend with them this week.

    At one point, he was curled up in the recliner with my niece and youngest nephew watching Gabby’s Dollhouse.

    Later, everybody was watching CaseOh.

    I love how much those kids love him.

    And how much he loves them right back.

    Even if one of them apparently infected him with the plague.

    Which brings me to something I still cannot get over.

    This man has survived me having COVID multiple times.

    Kissed me.

    Ate after me.

    Shared a bed with me.

    Nothing.

    A ONE-YEAR-OLD GETS A RUNNY NOSE?

    Man down.

    Absolutely defeated.

    I’m still salty about it.

    🤣

    📸 Through My Lens

    If I had taken one photograph that could somehow capture this entire week, it would probably look like this:

    One child headbutting something.

    Another biting someone.

    My niece yelling something wildly inappropriate.

    My boyfriend coughing in the background.

    Me holding a roll of paper towels wondering whose bodily fluid I am currently cleaning off my floor.

    And Rugrats playing somewhere in the distance.

    😂

    My one-year-old nephew spent Monday walking around saying:

    “Well, shit.”

    Meanwhile, my four-year-old niece has apparently expanded her vocabulary to include:

    “You mother fucker.”

    Beautiful.

    Educational.

    We’re doing great over here. 🥲

    Then came the poop.

    My niece has been battling constipation again, which eventually turned into her pooping twice in her panties, once in her pull-up, and once on my floor.

    My nephew peed on the floor.

    At that point I stopped asking questions.

    This house has seen things.

    But there were softer moments mixed into all of it.

    My best friend stopped by before moving to Tennessee to start a new career.

    The kids curled up everywhere.

    We watched old cartoons.

    We invented ridiculous bath-time traditions.

    And somewhere between the snot, potty accidents, and sleep deprivation, I realized how much I love having this kind of chaos in my house.

    Not permanently.

    Let’s not get carried away.

    😂

    But someday?

    Yeah.

    Someday.

    💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying

    Sometimes clarity is weird.

    I had a conversation with a longtime friend Tuesday night that somehow managed to make things clearer and more confusing at the exact same time.

    Nothing was really said outright.

    Nothing was completely answered.

    And yet I walked away understanding certain parts of our friendship better than I had before.

    Then we talked Wednesday.

    And Thursday.

    And basically all day in between.

    At some point I realized:

    Sir.

    I think we have officially exceeded the recommended weekly dosage of one another.

    😂

    But I’ve been thinking about how strange long friendships are.

    Especially the ones that have changed shape a hundred times.

    There are people who knew versions of us that don’t exist anymore.

    People who remember things we’ve forgotten.

    People who can disappear for stretches of time and somehow return to a conversation that feels like it never completely ended.

    Sometimes you think you understand what someone has been to you.

    Then one conversation shifts the angle slightly.

    Nothing necessarily changes.

    You just see it differently.

    I don’t know that every relationship in our lives needs a perfect definition.

    Maybe some of them just need honesty.

    And occasionally—

    a little fucking space.

    😂

    ❤️ This Week’s Gratitude

    This week’s gratitude belongs to a hug.

    A very small hug.

    A side hug, actually.

    And it meant more to me than that kid will probably ever realize.

    Today was my friend’s son’s surprise birthday party.

    He isn’t a touchy kid.

    At all.

    Hugs aren’t really his thing.

    So when I was getting ready to leave and he asked me for a side hug, I threw that helium tank down so damn fast.

    😂

    His dad looked genuinely shocked.

    Then asked him if he was feeling sick.

    🤣

    But I got my hug.

    And after everything that went into this weekend—the planning, decorating, shopping, baking, failing, trying again, wanting to quit, and somehow eventually making everything work—that tiny moment was the thing that mattered most.

    The cake was almost gone before I left.

    The kids were asking me for the recipe.

    He had fun.

    But that hug?

    That’s the part I’m keeping.

    There are some moments that look incredibly small from the outside.

    You have to know the person to understand how big they really are.

    I knew.

    His dad knew.

    And I think he knew, too.

    That was enough.

    🥰

    😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”

    THE FUCKING CAKE.

    Oh my God.

    The cake.

    What began as:

    I’m going to make a tornado picking up a dump truck!

    eventually became:

    I have made a terrible mistake.

    😂

    First, the cake wasn’t big enough.

    Fine.

    We need more cake mix.

    My mom went to the store.

    She came home with two boxes.

    I dumped everything into the bowl.

    Started mixing.

    Looked at it.

    Something wasn’t right.

    I looked at the box.

    Brownies.

    🥲

    So.

    Now we had brownies.

    My sister ordered actual cake mix.

    We checked the boxes this time.

    Because apparently that was necessary.

    Then came Saturday.

    My sister and the kids came over, and what should have been cake decorating became an all-day engineering crisis.

    We tried.

    Failed.

    Tried again.

    Failed.

    Tried AGAIN.

    Failed AGAIN.

    I got mad.

    I wanted to quit.

    We tried again.

    Failed again.

    I damn near cried.

    And then there was the fondant.

    Fuck fondant.

    The fondant made everything too heavy and literally crumbled BOTH CAKES.

    At this point, I was spiritually done.

    We went back to the store.

    Again.

    Bought two more boxes of cake mix.

    Bought more eggs.

    And I decided I would try one. more. fucking. time.

    I scrapped the dump-truck idea.

    Went back to the original idea I had before all of this started.

    And—

    IT WORKED.

    😭😂

    Six boxes of cake mix.

    Two boxes of brownie mix.

    Twenty-two eggs.

    Multiple failed cakes.

    One fondant-induced structural collapse.

    Several trips to the store.

    Approximately seventeen emotional breakdowns.

    And one woman who became increasingly hostile toward baked goods.

    But I made the fucking cake.

    And you know what?

    I was proud of it.

    Then came today’s final boss:

    the thirty-minute car ride to the party.

    I swear I spent the entire drive mentally preparing myself to watch this cake collapse in real time.

    But—

    THE CAKE FUCKING MADE THE TRIP.

    😭😂

    It survived.

    The birthday boy loved it.

    The kids nearly demolished the entire thing before I left.

    Some of them even asked me for the recipe.

    Kids, the recipe is:

    Six boxes of cake mix.

    Two boxes of brownies.

    Twenty-two eggs.

    Rage.

    Denial.

    Several trips to the grocery store.

    And the refusal to let a fucking cake win.

    Enjoy.

    😂

    Now it’s Sunday evening.

    The party is over.

    The cake survived.

    The birthday boy had fun.

    I got my hug.

    The kids are home.

    I’m home.

    And I am officially declaring this week over.

    I don’t care that there are technically several hours left in Sunday.

    Those hours no longer belong to society.

    They belong to me.

    I am putting my phone down.

    I am cuddling up.

    I am watching my boyfriend play Palworld.

    And I am doing absolutely fucking nothing else.

    Because apparently last week’s lesson did not stick, so I’m going to try it again:

    Whatever needs me now?

    Can become Monday’s problem.

    Until next time,

    —Destiny

    P.S. What is something that went completely, spectacularly wrong for you—but somehow worked out in the end anyway?

  • Sunday Things #5

    Apparently, the second I started feeling better, I forgot I had surgery.

    Not completely.

    Just enough to become a problem. 😂

    Last week, I was talking about how strange it felt to finally start feeling like myself again.

    This week?

    I apparently took that as a challenge.

    I went out to dinner.

    I picked up kids.

    I had sleepovers.

    I baked cupcakes.

    I got my nails done.

    I went swimming.

    I went to a birthday party.

    I stayed up half the night with a sick kid.

    And somewhere in there, I apparently decided recovery was over because I could finally move around without immediately regretting my existence.

    It is not.

    For the record.

    I’m definitely feeling better, but if I do too much, I still feel it in my hips and lower back.

    Apparently feeling better and actually being completely recovered are two different things.

    Okay, everybody calm the fuck down.

    I said BETTER, not BRAND NEW. 😂

    ☕ This Week’s Comfort

    Honestly?

    People.

    Which feels weird to say after spending the last few weeks wanting nothing more than my bed, my recliner, and everybody to leave me alone. 😂

    Monday night, my best friend picked me up and took me to BDUBS.

    Afterward, we sat in her car for about an hour listening to music and talking.

    Then somehow we spent another two hours sitting on the porch saying random words just to see how thick our accents were.

    I don’t know.

    Apparently this is what friendship looks like in your thirties. 😂

    There were also lunches out.

    King of the Hill in the recliner.

    A very necessary nail appointment.

    And beef and noodles.

    Oh, the beef and noodles.

    I had been craving something and couldn’t figure out what it was.

    Then I got out of the shower Friday and it hit me:

    BEEF AND NOODLES.

    I got on DoorDash and ordered everything before I even dried off.

    There are moments in life when you have to have priorities.

    That was one of them.

    📸 Through My Lens

    There were a lot of little moments worth keeping this week.

    Monday, I picked my niece up from school and helped her wrap her girlfriend’s birthday gifts for Thursday.

    Then Tuesday, my younger niece turned four.

    Four.

    I genuinely don’t understand how that happened.

    She was born three months early and was once small enough to fit in the palm of my hand.

    Now she’s more than half my height. 🥲

    I made her birthday outfit, and I gave her a little toy piano for her birthday.

    She—and both of the boys—absolutely love it.

    Unfortunately, the piano later betrayed her.

    She managed to get her finger stuck between the keys and started going:

    “Ow. Ow. Ow. NeeNee!”

    I got her finger out and asked why she put it in there in the first place.

    She said:

    “I don’t know!”

    Then she looked at me.

    Looked at the piano.

    Looked back at me.

    And said:

    “That mother fucker.”

    😭😂

    I couldn’t help it.

    I laughed.

    Her birthday party was Saturday. My sister made the cutest cake, she loved all of her presents, and we went swimming.

    It was fun.

    And overstimulating.

    But mostly, I kept looking at this little girl who used to fit in the palm of my hand and wondering how the hell four years went by that fast.

    💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying

    Wednesday was my follow-up appointment.

    And I finally heard the words I have been waiting to hear:

    I CAN PICK THE KIDDOS UP AGAIN.

    😭

    Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for that?!

    Naturally, my niece called afterward to ask how my appointment went—and, more importantly, whether I was allowed to pick her and the boys up yet.

    Priorities. 😂

    So I picked them up early from the sitter.

    Because obviously.

    But the appointment also gave me the next part of this whole weird journey.

    For the next three to six months, I’ll be getting a monthly injection that will put me into a medically induced menopause.

    At 33.

    Because apparently I am an overachiever.

    The goal is to help treat what remains of my endometriosis and shrink my fibroid. And at the end of all of this, my doctor believes I’ll have a better chance of getting pregnant.

    Which is strange to think about.

    I’m about to temporarily shut down the very system I’m hoping will eventually help me have a baby.

    There’s something almost absurd about that.

    But hopeful, too.

    This whole process has been one weird contradiction after another.

    Surgery so I can heal.

    Menopause because I want a baby.

    Feeling better while still recovering.

    Being excited and absolutely terrified at the same time.

    Apparently, two things can be true at once.

    I’m learning that a lot lately.

    ❤️ This Week’s Gratitude

    This one belongs to the little moments.

    My niece staying the night when she almost never wants to.

    Making clay keychains together.

    Baking chocolate cupcakes and decorating them with pink and purple icing, pink glitter, and unicorn toppers.

    Her doing my makeup.

    Watching KPop Demon Hunters.

    Random dancing.

    Doing a Facebook Live for absolutely no reason.

    And eventually having her curled up asleep in my lap.

    There was also a conversation with my boyfriend this week about babies.

    And proposals.

    Apparently his current proposal plan involves taking me somewhere near a cliff so that if I say no, I can “accidentally” fall off.

    So.

    That’s comforting.

    😂

    I can’t stand him sometimes.

    But underneath the jokes, there are conversations happening now that once felt really far away.

    Marriage.

    A baby.

    Our future.

    And after everything my body has been through lately, there is something really nice about talking about what might come next instead of only thinking about what hurts right now.

    😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”

    Oh, Sunday.

    Sweet, innocent Sunday.

    On Saturday, I wrote this:

    Please, I’m begging you, please let me just relax today, and do nothing. At all. I’m begging you.

    —Destiny
    Written on Saturday.

    Apparently Sunday took that personally.

    It technically started at 12:23 a.m.

    I hadn’t even been to sleep yet because every time I started dozing off, my nephew would toss, turn, whine, or cough.

    Then he puked.

    On me.

    And the bed.

    So there I was, shortly after midnight, cleaning vomit and trying to get a sick kid settled back down.

    Eventually, he fell asleep lying on my stomach.

    Poor DooDoos. 😩

    He was up and down for most of the night, so sleep was basically a rumor.

    By morning, I was on the couch watching CaRtOoNz with one nephew coughing, snotting, and crying while the other was growling like a demon baby.

    If you’ve ever seen Baby Jack-Jack from The Incredibles?

    That.

    It wasn’t even 10 a.m.

    Eventually, Demon Baby left for a visit with his mom and dad, and I developed a craving.

    Texas Roadhouse.

    And when I say craving, I mean mission.

    So yes.

    I took the sick nephew with us.

    Judge me. 🤷🏻‍♀️

    We came home.

    I took a nap.

    My nephew eventually got picked up.

    And I planted myself in the recliner, turned on King of the Hill, and have barely moved since.

    I’m on the final season now.

    And remember that laundry I was supposed to do today?

    Yeah.

    I didn’t do laundry. 😂

    You know what?

    It’ll still be dirty tomorrow.

    Until next time,

    —Destiny

    P.S. What’s something you absolutely should have done this weekend…but decided could become Monday’s problem instead?

  • Sunday Things #4

    It’s strange how quickly your definition of a good day can change.

    A couple of weeks ago, a good day probably wouldn’t have been defined by taking a shower without immediately needing to lie down afterward.

    Or being able to leave the house for a few hours.

    Or waking up and realizing the cramps that had been trying to kill me for three straight days were finally gone.

    But apparently, this is where we are now. 😂

    This week was my first full week of recovery, and I am learning that healing has absolutely no interest in being consistent.

    One day, I feel almost normal.

    The next, standing in the shower for a little too long makes me feel like I’ve run a marathon.

    And somewhere in the middle of all of that, my period decided this was the perfect time to show up and make everything approximately 700 times worse.

    My body has been through enough.

    She could’ve sat this month out. 😒

    Still, by the end of the week, things started feeling a little more normal.

    I left the house.

    I saw family.

    My nephews stayed the night.

    I went to a baby shower.

    I picked up my camera again.

    And for a few hours today, I wasn’t sitting around thinking about recovering from surgery.

    I was just…out.

    Doing something.

    Being around people.

    Feeling a little bit like myself again.

    Turns out, I missed her.

    ☕ This Week’s Comfort

    Movies in bed.

    My boyfriend renting the new Backrooms movie so we could watch it at home.

    Cuddling in the recliner while watching him play video games.

    My heating pad, even though it completely betrayed me when I actually needed it.

    Naps.

    Clean clothes.

    A long shower.

    And finally reaching the point where getting comfortable doesn’t require rearranging seventeen pillows and negotiating with my abdomen first.

    There is something deeply underrated about the first few days after surgery when ordinary things start feeling ordinary again.

    📷 Through My Lens

    I picked up my camera again this week.

    Not for long.

    Not for some planned photography adventure.

    I took it with me to my friend’s baby shower, and I ended up getting some really good pictures of her.

    And I think I needed that more than I realized.

    After spending so much time in bed or in the recliner, watching the world happen from one spot, it felt really good to look through my camera again.

    To notice light.

    Expressions.

    Little moments worth keeping.

    I’m still healing.

    I’m still limited.

    But apparently my creativity didn’t go anywhere.

    It was just waiting for me to get off the couch. 😂

    💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying

    There’s a weird point in recovery where you start feeling better before you’re actually better.

    And I think I’ve reached it.

    Friday, I had very little pain. After the week I’d had, I felt damn near fully recovered.

    Then I move around too much and my body very quickly reminds me:

    Ma’am.

    You literally just had surgery.

    I’m ready to do things again.

    I’m ready to go places.

    I’m ready to stop thinking about whether something is too heavy for me to lift.

    More than anything, I’m ready to be able to pick up my nephews again. 😭

    But feeling better and being healed aren’t the same thing.

    Unfortunately, my body seems to understand that better than my brain does.

    So, for now, I’m trying to listen when it tells me I’ve done enough.

    Even when I really, really don’t want to.

    ❤️ This Week’s Gratitude

    My sister.

    Without question.

    This period hit me like a fucking freight train.

    Norco didn’t touch the cramps.

    Ibuprofen didn’t touch them.

    My heating pad basically looked at me and said, good luck though.

    Then my sister showed up with Midol and more disposable period panties because she knew I was miserable.

    I could have cried. 🥹

    There are grand gestures of love, and then there is somebody showing up with exactly what you need when you feel like absolute shit.

    I’ll take the second one every time.

    I’m also grateful for my boyfriend, who has spent another week taking care of me, keeping me company, watching movies with me, and generally making being stuck at home suck a little less.

    For my nephews coming over.

    For getting to see friends today.

    For being able to go to my friend’s baby shower, even if I did have to leave a little early when I started getting sore.

    And for my body.

    Even though I have complained about her approximately 4,762 times this week, she’s healing.

    I should probably give her a little credit for that.

    😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”

    Where do I even begin?

    First:

    Today’s poop was easier.

    Listen.

    Post-surgery, you celebrate different milestones. 😂

    Second, I got my period immediately after abdominal surgery because apparently my uterus saw everything else happening down there and said,

    You know what this situation needs? More blood.

    And because I can’t use tampons right now, I have been introduced to the wonderful world of disposable period panties.

    I support free bleeding.

    I really do.

    But I prefer my free bleeding to happen while I am sitting on the toilet like God and plumbing intended.

    Feeling blood slowly leave your body while you’re wearing what is essentially a socially acceptable diaper?

    Absolutely fucking not.

    0/10.

    Hated the experience.

    And finally…

    Today at my friend’s baby shower, we played the game where you guess how big around the pregnant belly is.

    I won.

    I was only off by two inches.

    How did I estimate the measurement so accurately?

    Did I carefully study her belly?

    Use some sort of spatial reasoning?

    Possess an unexplained talent for estimating circumference?

    No.

    I measured my boobs. ☠️☠️☠️

    And apparently my boobs are an excellent unit of measurement.

    I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this information now that I have it.

    But I won.

    So.

    Science. 😂

    Until next time.

    -Destiny

    P.s.- What’s one little thing that made you feel like yourself again this week?

  • Sunday Things #3

    There’s something about Sundays that makes me look back at the week a little differently.

    The little moments start connecting.

    The uncomfortable ones.

    The funny ones.

    The ones that seemed insignificant at the time but somehow became the story.

    This week wasn’t productive.

    It wasn’t exciting.

    It was slow.

    And maybe that’s exactly what I needed.

    For the first time in a long time, I didn’t have the option to keep moving.

    My body made that decision for me.

    ☕ This Week’s Comfort

    A heating pad.

    King of the Hill playing in the background.

    Naps that happened whenever they happened.

    And finally being able to shower after surgery.

    Sometimes comfort isn’t exciting.

    Sometimes it’s simply finding one position that doesn’t hurt.

    📷 Through My Lens

    I didn’t pick up my camera this week.

    Instead, I spent a lot of time noticing things from the recliner.

    How quickly the days blurred together.

    How different every hour of recovery felt.

    And how healing can somehow feel painfully slow and surprisingly fast at the same time.

    💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying

    This week reminded me that healing isn’t passive.

    It feels like you’re doing nothing…

    but your body is doing everything.

    I’ve spent so much of my life feeling guilty whenever I slowed down.

    This week, I didn’t have a choice.

    And maybe that’s okay.

    Maybe resting is still moving forward.

    Just in a different direction.

    ❤️ This Week’s Gratitude

    I’m grateful the surgery went well.

    I’m grateful they finally found answers.

    I’m grateful for heating pads.

    For nurses who don’t wait for you to ask if you’re hurting.

    For pain medicine that worked faster than I thought was possible.

    For everyone who checked in on me.

    And especially for my boyfriend, who has spent the week making sure I haven’t had to worry about much of anything except getting better.

    😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”

    I have become painfully aware of just how many things require your abdominal muscles.

    Shifting positions?

    Sore.

    Walking?

    Sore.

    Coughing?

    Absolutely not.

    Yawning?

    Apparently that’s an abdominal activity now, too.

    Even getting comfortable requires getting uncomfortable first.

    I knew I was going to be sore after surgery.

    I just didn’t realize my stomach was involved in approximately 97% of existing.

    And then, of course, there’s pooping after surgery.

    That’s an entire adventure of its own.

    I’ll leave it at that.

    🌱 This Week’s Small Joy

    My peanut butter pie finally arrived. 😅

    I knew it was coming.

    I’ve been waiting for it.

    And after spending several days snacking more than actually eating, I was VERY happy to finally see that pie.

    There were other little things, too.

    Video calls with my sister that kept me sane.

    My heating pad practically becoming another appendage.

    King of the Hill playing while I drifted in and out of naps.

    And noticing the bloating and gas finally starting to ease up.

    Nothing huge.

    But this wasn’t really a week for huge things.

    This was a week for finding something good in the small ones.

    Until next time.

    -Destiny

    P.S. What’s one small thing that made a hard day feel a little easier this week? I’d love to hear about it. 🖤

  • Sunday Things #2

    There’s something about Sundays that makes me look back at the week a little differently.

    The little moments start connecting.

    The random conversations, the small victories, the things that almost got forgotten somehow end up becoming the parts I remember the most.

    This week wasn’t loud.

    But it was full.

    For the first time in a while, I felt ahead instead of behind. I spent a lot of time writing, researching, and creating, and I realized how much I’ve missed having a project that genuinely excites me. History After Dark is quickly becoming one of my favorite things I’ve ever worked on.

    ☕ This Week’s Comfort

    Morning quiet.

    Writing before work.

    Watching Bailey Sarian while my nephews napped.

    And realizing one burned out bathroom light somehow made the room feel…cozier instead of darker.

    📷 Through My Lens

    Saturday’s photoshoot almost didn’t go as planned.

    The rain sent us downtown instead of out to the sunflower field, and honestly, I wouldn’t change it. We ended up with some of my favorite photos we’ve taken.

    Sometimes the backup plan ends up being the better story.

    💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying

    I think creativity comes in seasons.

    Some weeks I struggle to write a paragraph.

    This week I finished my first History After Dark article, completed my second, finished all the research for my third, and somehow still found myself writing down ideas for novels after waking up from strange dreams.

    Maybe inspiration doesn’t disappear.

    Maybe it just waits until we’re paying attention again.

    ❤️ This Week’s Gratitude

    I’m grateful my niece was okay.

    I’m grateful my little guy at work caught the ball and threw it back to me. It sounds like such a small thing, but for him, it was huge.

    I’m grateful for tiny milestones—whether it’s hearing my oldest nephew proudly say, “I want my bibi,” or watching another child take his first lunch outside.

    And I’m grateful that I finally found a series I can’t wait to keep writing.

    😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”

    I somehow ended up having a serious conversation about cannibalism.

    I learned I apparently know far too much about the subject.

    I also accidentally corrected someone’s classification of human meat…

    …and they stopped texting me shortly after.

    I’m choosing to believe they just got busy.

    🌱 This Week’s Small Joy

    Feeding a squirrel out of my hand.

    She was tiny.

    She was brave.

    And she absolutely made my day.

    Here’s to another week.

    Hopefully one with fewer hiccups, fewer hospital visits, and fewer conversations where I accidentally sound like I belong on an FBI watchlist.

    Until next time,

    — Destiny

    P.S. What’s one unexpected thing that made you smile this week? I’d love to hear it.