lovemakesroom

There’s a version of motherhood and working life that gets posted—the cute outfits, the coffee in aesthetic mugs, the “we’ve got this” energy.

And then there’s this version.

The one that starts at 3:30 AM.

FS3 woke up crying for mommy. Not the soft, sleepy kind of cry—the kind that comes from deep in their little chest. Wiley got up (thank God for that man), scooped him up, rocked him, whispered reassurances, gave hugs that say you’re safe now. Meanwhile, the house soundtrack? That lovely, unhinged chirp… chirp… chirp of an alarm system begging for new batteries like a smoke detector on its last leg.

And me?
Curled up trying to ignore the fact that my body has officially declared war on me.

Missing two weeks of my Mounjaro shot has my stomach in absolute chaos. Not “a little off.” I’m talking full-blown GI rebellion. The kind where you start mentally mapping bathrooms like you’re planning a cross-country road trip.

By 6:00 AM, FS3 makes their way into our room. No boundaries, just vibes. We let it happen. Honestly, sometimes survival mode wins over structure. We hang out for a bit—half cuddles, half trying to wake up our brains.

Then it’s go time.

Hair.
Clothes.
Breakfast.
Shoes (why are shoes always the hardest part?).

Out the door.

School drop-off.
Daycare drop-off.

Then it’s just me and FS15 heading to Wenatchee for an 8:30 AM appointment—already cutting it close, already running on fumes.

Halfway there?
Doctor canceled. Sick.

Of course.

So we pivot. Because that’s what moms do.

We hit Walmart—because nothing says “thriving” like buying Imodium at 8 AM just to make it through the day. I drop FS15 at his appointment, swing over to the clinic, get my blood draw done, circle back, grab him, and head home like nothing ever went sideways.

Because again… that’s what we do.

I drop him off, then head into the office to grind out the rest of the workday like a semi-functioning adult. Around 2:45, I head back into town:

Pick up FD6.
Drop her at daycare.
Back to work.

By 5:00 PM, I’m done—at least on paper.

Reality?

Pick up both kids.
Get them outside to burn off the chaos they’ve been holding in all day.
Start dinner.
Navigate the delicate dance of “please just eat something that isn’t beige.”

Then comes:

Homework with FD6
Meltdown #1
Meltdown #2
(We’ll call it a win if we cap it there)

Then it’s baths, or quiet time, or bedtime—depending on how the evening shakes out and how much energy anyone has left.

And when the house finally goes quiet?

Wiley and I sit down… not to relax… but to work on his business projects and tackle the never-ending mountain of laundry. Because apparently clothes multiply when you’re not looking.

Here’s the truth no one packages up nicely:

Some days are exhausting.
Some days are chaotic.
Some days your body is working against you while everything else depends on you showing up anyway.

And still… you do it.

Not perfectly.
Not gracefully.
But consistently.

Because these kids—these moments—this life—it’s messy and loud and unpredictable… but it’s also ours.

And somehow, even in the middle of Walmart runs for survival meds and 3:30 AM wake-ups…

we keep showing up.

One task.
One kid.
One moment at a time.