Let’s just start with this: Today, I had BIG plans to be a functioning adult.
You know, the kind of woman who drinks water before she grabs a COKE, makes a decent to do list, and folds laundry before it lives permanently in the basket like a second dresser. Spoiler alert: I am not that woman. Not today. Probably not tomorrow either.
Today started with work. Because that’s what responsible adults do. We show up, we smile, we juggle ten things while pretending we have it all together. But let’s be real—I was 43% caffeine, 57% “Don’t ask me one more question.”
After work, I did something bold. Brave. Slightly overdue.
I got a haircut. And color. Because guess what? The grays are coming in hot, and I’m not ready to be that wise yet.
There’s something about sitting in that chair with foils in your hair that makes you reflect on life, like—how did I get here? Why did no one warn me that adulting comes with this much laundry, an extreme lack of sleep, and so little actual quiet? And why does the smell of hair dye feel like a spiritual experience when you haven’t had a moment to yourself all week?
I came home looking ten years younger and thought I’d get a moment to just be. But nope—Crash was ready.
“Let’s play HORSE,” he said. That’s our jam.
Now, let me clarify: I’m no Steph Curry, but I’ve got a decent shot and a very competitive spirit. I tied my freshly colored hair up and stepped onto the driveway like I was trying out for the WNBA.
It started off fair. We each made a few shots. I was holding my own. And then—then—Crash casually walks over, opens the car door, climbs into the front seat, and shoots from inside the car. Makes it. First try.
I stood there in disbelief while he just grinned and yelled, “H-O-R-S-E!”
I said, “That’s cheating!”
He said, “It’s creative.”
I said, “I gave you life.”
He said, “And I just gave you a letter. Take the shot, Mom.”
So yeah. I lost. To a 12-year-old with the audacity to use a car as a part of the game. Honestly, I respect the hustle. But I’m not above banning car-based shots from here on out.
By the time we wrapped up, I was sweaty, slightly sore, and thinking about the still-wet laundry in the washer that I forgot to switch before work this morning (again). I walked inside, looked at the pile of clean-but-not-folded clothes on the couch, and whispered, “Not today, Satan.”
And yet—this messy, chaotic, hilarious day? It was kind of perfect.
Because real life isn’t a curated Pinterest board. It’s a collage of weird moments, overdue hair appointments, miracle three-point shots from my Sequoia, and finding joy in between the mess.
So if your life feels like a hot mess express right now—welcome. You are my people. We are not failing. We are living. Loudly, imperfectly, and with extra gray hair.
Also, to my boys: if you’re reading this—I see your shenanigans. I love you. But next game, Mom’s playing from the roof. Let’s see how you like that creative shot.
Moral of the story? Grace over perfection. Laughter over laundry. And maybe next time, lock the car doors before playing HORSE.
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