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. 😂
destinylaharris 