This week felt like somebody put my life on shuffle.
There was absolutely no transition between anything.
One minute I was sick.
The next I was dancing.
Then there were children.
So many children.
A brand-new baby entered the world.
Somebody threw a desk.
Somebody else refused to nap.
And apparently my boyfriend can sleep through me falling on the floor but possesses some kind of supernatural boob-detection system.
So.
You know.
A normal week.
😂
Monday started at 2:30 in the damn morning with another visit from the tummy goblin.
I spent the next five hours running back and forth to the bathroom wondering what the actual fuck was happening to me.
Again.
By 7:30, I had officially accepted defeat.
I called out of work.
And I spent essentially the entire day in bed.
That was Monday.
Beautiful.
Thriving.
Living my best life.
😮💨
Wednesday, I absolutely took the day off too—but that one was planned.
Listen.
If I get home at 12:30 in the morning, I am NOT waking up at six to spend eight hours chasing an autistic baby around.
Could I?
Probably.
Was I going to?
Absolutely fucking not.
😂
Apparently my alarm still went off, though.
My boyfriend told me he had to climb over me to turn it off.
I did not wake up.
Not once.
I regret nothing.
Later that evening, Mom called because she wanted to go shopping with the kiddos and her fibromyalgia was acting up, so I went with her.
Then I came home, turned on Monster: The Lizzie Borden Story, and hid the remote from my boyfriend so he couldn’t change it.
😂
He walked in maybe three minutes after I started it, sat down, and actually watched the entire first episode with me.
Then started asking questions.
Lots of questions.
Until eventually I realized something horrifying:
this man did not know who Lizzie Borden was.
😮🫣
So apparently part of being in a relationship with me now includes mandatory historical true-crime education.
I don’t make the rules.
He went to bed after episode one because he was exhausted, and I stayed up for another episode like the responsible adult I am.
Thursday was funny because when I first started writing my notes for the week, I genuinely wrote:
I don’t remember Thursday.
😂
I thought maybe it had just been one of those completely average days where I worked, came home, showered, ate dinner, watched CaseOh, and went to bed.
Then my brain slowly started handing me Thursday back.
Oh yeah.
I got my nails done.
Then Doodoo called because he missed me, so I stopped at CVS to get the prenatal vitamins my doctor told me to start taking and went over to my sister’s house.
I helped her feed the kids, do bath time, and get everybody ready for bed.
Doodoo kept pointing at my watch saying:
“Uncle.”
So I video-called Uncle.
I honestly didn’t expect him to answer because Thursdays are normally his late days.
Except—
he was home.
He had the day off.
Of course he did.
😂
Eventually I left my sister’s house, got all the way home, realized I forgot cat food, and had to leave AGAIN.
Then I finally came home.
Showered.
Ate.
Went to bed.
Apparently Thursday wasn’t forgettable.
Thursday was just long as hell.
☕ This Week’s Comfort
Friday night, I came home from work, sat in my recliner for what felt like forever, took a shower…
and realized something.
The house didn’t feel right.
The boys weren’t there.
And apparently I have become so accustomed to spending my weekends surrounded by tiny people screaming, climbing on me, stealing my food, and demanding cartoons that silence now feels suspicious.
😂
So I went to my sister’s house and got them.
We came home.
We ate.
And somehow—
neither one fought sleep.
Not even a little.
They just went to bed.
I almost checked their temperatures.
😂
But honestly?
Having them there felt right.
Even when they drive me absolutely insane, I notice when they aren’t around.
Apparently my peaceful weekends have been permanently replaced by toddler chaos.
And apparently—
I’m okay with that.
📷 Through My Lens
Tuesday.
Y’all.
Tuesday.
The Pretty Reckless is my favorite band.
And my boyfriend made sure I got to see them.
I have said this already and I will continue saying it forever:
If that man never buys me another gift again, I am completely okay with that.
Because he gave me that night.
🥲🖤
And I got to share it with someone I love dearly.
One of my best friends trusted me enough to let his daughter come with me.
I have watched her and her brother grow from little kids in booster seats who needed help bathing into teenagers with opinions and personalities approximately fourteen times larger than their actual bodies.
😂
And lately, she has been carrying some things.
They are not my things to share.
What people tell me in confidence stays with me.
But watching her laugh?
Dance?
Cut loose?
Forget everything else for a few hours and just enjoy herself?
That meant more to me than I can explain.
And somehow—
we both got to touch Taylor Momsen.
😭
I still cannot believe that sentence is real.
As for me?
I was VIBING.
That is genuinely the best description I have.
I drank water all night and danced so hard that halfway through the show my hair was completely soaked.
My friend’s daughter looked at me and started laughing.
😂
Afterward, people actually came up to me and told me they had fun watching me dance and enjoy myself.
Apparently I became part of the entertainment.
Whoops.
I did have one man yell at me about where I was standing before The Pretty Reckless even came on.
I apologized.
Moved.
And he proceeded to glare at me for the rest of the night.
Okay.
You do you, boo.
We had shit to do.
😂
We were there to dance.
Make memories.
And scream songs we love at the top of our lungs.
And that is exactly what we did.
The next day, I went through all my pictures.
And I got some really fucking good ones.
My friend even told me I could tag him in my Facebook post.
Which I hadn’t planned on doing because—
well.
Crazy ex-wife situations.
😂
Then he told me I could post some pictures of his daughter too, as long as her face wasn’t showing.
Say less.
I was ridiculously careful about which ones I chose, and he approved every single picture before I posted it.
And I know that sounds like such a small thing.
But it isn’t to me.
Being trusted like that matters.
A lot.
I love photography.
I love concerts.
I love the weird little moments my camera catches.
But I think some photographs become important because of everything happening outside the frame.
And I think those pictures are going to be some of my favorites for a very long time.
💭 A Thought I’ve Been Carrying
Friday afternoon, one of my friends sent me:
“wyd.?”
And immediately—
I KNEW.
😂
I told my sister:
“Hold on. I might have to come get the boys later.”
Because—
MY FRIEND HAD HER BABY.
MY FRIEND HAD HER BABY!!!!
😭🖤
I was so excited.
But then I thought about it.
She had literally just had a human being.
And I had just survived one of the longest workdays of my life.
So I decided not to immediately show up at the hospital and insert myself into her first day with her baby.
Growth.
😂
Don’t misunderstand me.
I am absolutely going to be all in her business.
But I can give the woman a minute first.
Saturday got completely consumed by toddler chaos, so I stayed home again.
Then today I texted her because I felt bad that I hadn’t made it up there yet.
She asked if I wanted to come visit once they’re home.
Baby boy just needed to pee so they could hopefully get discharged.
😂
And she sent me pictures.
Y’ALL.
That baby is beautiful.
I haven’t seen a baby that gorgeous since Doodoo was born.
And now I’m sitting here ridiculously excited because I get to meet him soon.
But I think there’s something I’m learning as I get older:
loving people doesn’t always mean immediately showing up.
Sometimes it means giving them room.
Letting them breathe.
Letting them settle.
And letting them know:
I’m here whenever you’re ready.
I’m still going to squeeze that baby as soon as I’m allowed, though.
Obviously.
😂
❤️ This Week’s Gratitude
My boyfriend’s mom.
Easy.
Saturday?
Those boys were ON ONE.
Hitting.
Headbutting.
Throwing shit.
Fighting each other.
Crying.
Just being complete little assholes to one another all day.
😮💨
At one point, Doodoo finally went down for another nap.
Pooh Boy eventually crawled into the recliner with us and passed out too.
And when Mawmaw Nesi came through the door, I was terrified she was going to wake him.
Thankfully—
she didn’t.
Doodoo woke up a little later when he heard water running in the kitchen.
He sat up.
Looked me dead in my eyes.
And said:
“Where is she?”
Where is who, bub?
“Mawmaw.”
She’s in the kitchen doing dishes.
This half-asleep child launched himself off my lap and stumbled toward the kitchen like a tiny drunk person.
“Mawmaw!”
😂
She picked him up.
He changed his mind and wanted me again.
Naturally.
But after a cake pop, both boys wandered into the kitchen and started “helping” her with dishes.
And suddenly?
Nobody was climbing on me.
Nobody was crying in my face.
Nobody needed anything.
For approximately half an hour.
Y’all.
Bless that woman.
😂
I will never not appreciate those little breaks.
Especially on weekends when the children apparently wake up and collectively decide:
Today, we choose violence.
Sometimes gratitude is deep and meaningful.
Sometimes gratitude is somebody taking the toddlers into another room for thirty minutes.
Both count.
😂 This Week’s “Well…That Happened.”
I had OPTIONS this week.
Friday at work deserves honorable mention.
My kiddo was having an absolutely horrible day.
And when I say horrible—
I mean I got hit by him.
Hit by two other kiddos.
And my kiddo threw his desk—and himself—at me three separate times.
Lunch was running behind because they ran out of fries, and apparently that was enough to trigger the apocalypse.
He had two bathroom accidents too, which was really unusual because he hasn’t had those with me in almost a year.
By the end of the day?
We figured it out.
He was constipated.
🤦🏻♀️
Sir.
You terrorized an entire building because you needed to poop.
And yes.
Once he finally did—
his mood improved dramatically.
Of course it did.
😂
Then Saturday happened.
Pooh Boy’s visit got canceled because the person picking him up had car trouble.
Okay.
Whatever.
Except Pooh Boy then decided he was simply not going to nap.
At all.
So by late afternoon, this child was operating entirely on spite.
Eventually he passed out for maybe thirty minutes.
And honestly?
I celebrated that thirty minutes like I had personally won the lottery.
😂
Later, Uncle got home and cooked dinner.
Everybody sat down.
Doodoo pointed at the television.
“BLAHBLAH! I watch!”
You watch what?
“CaseOh!”
I had seven minutes left in my show.
Seven.
So I asked:
Can BlahBlah finish this first?
“No! CaseOh!”
…
Fine.
CaseOh it is.
Apparently I no longer own the television in my own house.
Cool.
😂
And then Sunday morning?
Uncle accidentally woke Pooh Boy up early.
Pooh Boy immediately started yelling:
“Guncle! Guncle!”
Which is how he says Uncle and I’m sorry, but Guncle is the cutest damn thing ever.
You cannot change my mind.
Unfortunately, the yelling woke Doodoo.
So suddenly all four of us were awake.
Early.
On.
A.
Sunday.
Absolutely not.
I grabbed Pooh Boy and put him in our bed.
Now listen to me, little boy.
Do NOT make this a habit.
He nodded.
We are all going back to sleep.
He nodded again.
Everybody understood the assignment.
Doodoo went back to sleep.
Uncle went back to sleep.
I went back to sleep.
Eventually I woke up halfway off the bed with my entire right arm asleep.
I very carefully rolled over.
Pooh Boy?
Still asleep.
Thank goodness.
😂
Around eight, I realized he was awake only because his breathing changed.
I kept my eyes closed because if he was going to be quiet—
I was going to enjoy it.
Eventually he started rubbing my arm.
“BlahBlah.”
“BlahBlah.”
Fine.
I’m awake.
😂
Honestly?
If that’s how I have to wake up on a Sunday morning, I guess I can live with it.
And now it’s Sunday afternoon.
Doodoo had smoked sausage and a baked potato for lunch and apparently approved of my cooking.
Uncle has been playing his game.
I’ve been sitting on the couch.
Doodoo has alternated between playing peacefully and crying about whatever injustice toddlers are experiencing at any given moment.
😂
He even squeezed in one last little nap.
I’m about to take him home.
Then I’m coming back here.
Cleaning the living room.
Finishing laundry.
And after that?
I am doing absolutely fucking nothing.
🤗
This week started with me stuck in bed while my stomach attempted to ruin my life.
Somewhere in the middle, I danced until my hair was soaked, watched someone I love forget her worries for a few hours, learned my boyfriend has never received adequate Lizzie Borden education, celebrated a brand-new baby entering the world, and spent the weekend surrounded by tiny people who apparently believe peace is optional.
And somehow?
I’m ending the week tired—
but really fucking happy.
I keep saying it lately, but I mean it:
I love my little life.
It’s loud.
It’s chaotic.
It rarely goes according to plan.
And somebody almost always needs something from me.
But there are people here I love.
People who trust me.
Kids who miss me when I’m gone.
A man who makes ridiculous things possible for me.
Friends whose lives I get to witness.
Babies I get to watch grow.
And a house that somehow feels a little too quiet when certain tiny feet aren’t running through it.
That’s a pretty damn good life.
Even with the tummy goblins.
😂
Until next time,
—Destiny
P.S. What’s one thing from your week—big or completely ordinary—that made you stop for a second and think, “I really love my little life”?
