I woke up one morning and decided I was going to be that mom. You know the one — linen dress, hair in a low bun, serving fruit platters shaped like dolphins while whispering gentle affirmations into the Florida humidity. The kind of mom who probably says things like “Let’s regulate our emotions” instead of “Get in the car before I lose my mind.”
It started fine. Peaceful, even. The sun peeked through the blinds, birds chirped, and I thought, This is my era. I poured coffee into an actual mug instead of my usual sippy cup with a lid. I even put out a Pinterest-level breakfast: yogurt parfaits with sliced strawberries, granola, and a drizzle of honey that made me feel wildly domestic.
By 9:17 a.m., I was done.
Patrick refused the yogurt because it had “dots” (the chia seeds I added for “texture”). Blanca rolled her eyes so hard I thought they might stick that way. And Dave tried to compliment my calm new energy right as the dog threw up near the pantry. I don’t know who broke first, but it was probably me—still holding a wooden spoon and whispering “breathe in, breathe out” like some deranged meditation app.
Somewhere between trying to do Montessori-style play and cleaning glitter glue off the tile, I realized I don’t want to be that mom. I want to be my mom version—the one who says “five more minutes” and means thirty, who serves Eggo waffles on paper plates, who laughs when Patrick shows up to school in mismatched socks.
The influencer moms on Instagram have clean cars and white couches. My car smells like sunscreen and goldfish crackers, and my couch has a faint imprint of Cheeto dust that no amount of scrubbing will fix. But there’s joy here too—the kind that doesn’t photograph well but feels good anyway.
I’m not perfect. My fruit platters are misshapen, my patience runs out faster than my coffee, and I lose my phone at least four times a day (usually in the fridge). But I love these messy mornings, even the ones that crash by 9:17.
Perfection is overrated. I’ll take real, loud, and sticky any day.