The Week That Came in Hot
Not every week begins with gentle mornings and organized intentions. Some start like a tornado touching down in your living room—with Cheerios on the floor, someone already crying, and no spoons in sight. Where do they go?! This week? It was one of those. A series of emotional avalanches and logistical landmines that didn’t let up.
Meltdowns, Mayhem, and Miniature Negotiators
The soundtrack of the week was part toddler tantrum, part sibling squabble, and part “why is there yogurt on the ceiling?”
Arguments broke out like flash storms. Someone always needed something. Someone else always disagreed. Most days, it felt like playing whack-a-mole with emotions. Just guiding small humans through big feelings with a very tired smile.
Toddler Terror: Diaper Edition
Our toddler—sweet as sugar, clever as a fox—has figured out how to take her diaper off. Not just once. Not occasionally. Multiple times a day with a look of absolute victory. She’s also cracked the code on baby locks. Cabinets? Open. Bins? Dumped.
And just to spice things up, she decided to sample a variety of inedible items like they were part of some gourmet toddler tasting menu. Crayons, dust bunnies, and the dog’s tail. Delicious.
The Cat Crisis (A Furry Curveball)
Just as the toddler chaos peaked, our cat—normally chill and independent—got sick. And not the “just rest it off” kind of sick. This was the “let me redecorate every surface with bodily fluids” variety.
I have never done so much laundry in my life. Bedding, rugs, and curtains —twice over. Tending to her, checking her symptoms, cleaning behind every corner she reached…it’s been like living in a very unfortunate pet commercial.
She’s finally on the mend. But the aftermath? Unforgiving.
The Rare-Child Check-Up
Then came the doctor appointment—not your average well visit. When parenting a child with a rare condition, these check-ups aren’t routine; they’re loaded with unspoken weight. This one, in particular, was a milestone—our first chance to evaluate a decision we had to make without the comfort of research or a stack of peer-reviewed studies. That’s the reality when your child is one of the few. There isn’t always a roadmap. You go with your gut, your instincts sharpened by love and urgency.
The tension on the way there was thick enough to cut with a knife. Our daughter’s anxiety showed itself in a relentless loop of spiraling thoughts. She talked through every what-if, every worst-case scenario, unable to let them rest. Her words tumbled out over nervous singing, rhythmic tapping, and restless shifting. All you can do in those moments is pull her close, wrap her in a hug, and remind her—no matter what, you’ve got her. That she’s not walking this alone. That come good news or hard news, you’re in it together. Sometimes that quiet reassurance is the only anchor in the storm.
Then… the news.
Good. Mostly steady. A whisper of regression, but still within the margin that keeps the alarms at bay. Close, though—right on the edge of needing intervention. That fine line we walk so often as parents of rare kids.
We all exhaled together—the kind of breath you don’t realize you’ve been holding. Relief, heavy with the weight of an emotional hangover. Because even with good news, that whisper of regression and being so close to the line doesn’t shake off easily. And now, the clock resets. Another countdown to the next appointment. The next scan. The next time we hold our breath… wondering, will that one push us over the line?
Internet Meltdowns and the Juggle of Everything
Just to keep things spicy, the internet decided to die intermittently all week. Homeschooling paused mid-lesson. The book I’m writing? Slow going at best. The blog sat in limbo.
Trying to switch gears constantly between being mom, teacher, nurse, writer, cleaner, referee, cook, and chaos manager? That’s its own special form of burnout.
The Invisible Work of Remembering Everyone’s Needs
Each person in the house needs something different. A snack, a calm-down strategy, a moment alone, a hug, a reminder to breathe. And it’s all on a loop.
There’s a weight in remembering everything—appointments, sensitivities, emotional cues, food preferences, sensory limits. And trying to remember myself in the mix? Nearly impossible this week.
Tension Like Static in the Air
By Friday, everything felt sharp. Conversations were shorter. Patience, thin. It was like the whole house was holding its breath, waiting for someone—anyone—to hit reset.
I didn’t want to bark at my kids. I didn’t want to be the tired version of me that shows up when the to-do list outgrows the day. But there I was, snapping over crumbs and hiding in my room just to hear silence.
Time to Break the Pattern
We needed out. Out of the house. Out of the rut. Out of the spiral. It didn’t need to be extravagant. Just different.
Routine is comforting—until it becomes a cage. So we made a spontaneous plan. Something that didn’t involve schedules, checkboxes, or laundry.
Beach Day: The Family Reboot
Not just the baby. All of us. We loaded into the car with snacks, towels, and weary hearts. No schedules. No demands. Just the ocean, the sun, and sand between our toes.
The baby squealed with joy. The toddler dug holes and chased waves. The big kids laughed, for once not at each other, but with each other. We collected shells, splashed in the shallows, and laid on towels watching clouds drift.
It wasn’t perfect. Someone still cried. Someone still got sand in their snack. But it was ours. And it worked.
The Power of Simple Joy
The ocean doesn’t ask for anything. It just shows up—loud and wild and calm and soothing all at once. That’s what we needed. To sit beside something bigger than the week we’d had. To let the wind blow the weight off. To reset without words.
The Truth About Motherhood
It isn’t always magical. Some weeks, it’s survival mode with a side of tears and cereal for dinner. And that doesn’t mean we’re failing. It means we’re living the truth of it. The hard, hilarious, humbling truth. But in the messy, melty, maddening days, there are still moments that feel like magic.
They don’t come wrapped in bows. They come wrapped in salty hair, sandy feet, and tiny giggles that melt the stress right out of you.
What do you do when motherhood stops feeling magical? How do you reset, reconnect, or recharge? I’d love to hear what helps you find your breath again.
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