Ever wonder if women truly can juggle everything? As a seasoned mom of four, I share this hilarious, all-too-real glimpse into daily chaos. 😊
“Mommy, can you turn on Netflix?” my Little Man asks impatiently. "I'm coming," I call from the kitchen. "Are you coming now?"
I'm busy, Mister Impatience.
I wash my hands and rush to the TV. Annoyed, I press every button on the remote—this is taking forever. Finally, it's on. I dash back to the kitchen, where the meat sizzles in the pan, waiting to be flipped.
I quickly clean the mushrooms and pour myself a glass of wine. Oh right, that email needs a reply. Oops, the meat's charring—turn down the heat. I set up the next pan for the mushrooms and slide the lasagna into the oven. The kids love it. In the distance, the washing machine beeps.
I bolt upstairs phone in hand, hit send on the email. Little Man yells from below, “Mama, can I have gingerbread cookies?” “Nooo!” I shout back. "We're eating soon."
Wailing echoes from downstairs, but I'm switching laundry to the dryer and loading the next load. The doorbell rings. Aargh, who now? Wehkamp delivery—the two new sweaters for Little Man. "Thanks, see you!"
Back to the kitchen to save the mushrooms. Not too bad—give them a quick toss.
Sigh, we're seated. “Mommy, I don't like those bits.” “That's a shame.” I cut his meat, glance at Husband. "You okay, honey?"
I sigh, set down my knife. "Yeah, bit of a rush, but all good." Except I'm not hungry anymore. I force a bite, refill the kids' glasses, pour more wine. "Cheers," I mumble. Especially for me.
Why do we women think we can do it all at once?
Post-dinner, Little Man demands a chore—not tidying toys. Teen Daughter 14 feeds the dogs, Son 16 takes out trash, Daughter 18 scrubs the sink (Little Man helps), Husband sends his 'last' email (we know better). I load the dishwasher while handling the rest.
After dinner, I bathe Little Man and mop the bedroom floors. In pajamas, he asks: “Mama, cuddle in my bed?”
Melt.
“Hop in bed, sweetie. Mommy'll grab her phone downstairs and join you.”
“Can someone call me? Lost my phone.”
I perk up, listening for the ringtone. Then a thud from the washing machine. I freeze.
No way...
Heart racing, I sprint upstairs, fling open the laundry door. Kneeling by the washer, nose to glass, there it spins in soapy water. Tears well up.
It's toast.
“Mommy coming now!” Poor kid—he means no harm. Dead phone's dead. I shut the door, snuggle with Little Man, duvet over our heads. Peace at last.
