Finding Forty

Today, I washed poop off a toddler, underwear, and myself.

I am tired. Not “I need a nap” tired—soul tired. I am pull-string doll tired. Repeating the same phrases over and over like I’m the only one who hears them.

“We don’t climb the furniture.”

“Gentle hands.”

“Because I said so—again.”

Redirection? Ha. I know I should do it. I try to do it. But by the twelfth time, the only thing I’m redirecting is my sanity.

At this point, I would sell my last brain cell for a Red Bull, a tray of sushi, some cold deli meat, and—brace yourself—a stiff drink. Maybe even a cigarette.

And to be clear: I don’t smoke. I’ve had a cigarette, sure—preteen me used to sneak the butts from my birth mom’s ashtrays. But I’ve never smoked as an adult. That’s how deep in the trenches I am right now… craving something I don’t even want, just to feel a flicker of adult autonomy again—to choose something indulgent solely for myself, without explaining, sharing, or cleaning it up after.

They say motherhood is precious.

And it is.

But not because it’s clean or calm or easy.

It’s precious because it breaks you open. Because somewhere between the chaos and the quiet, you catch glimpses of something sacred. Like the way he serenaded me after his nap—

“You are so beautiful to me.”

Just like that. No prompt. No performance. Just the unfiltered tenderness of a toddler who moments earlier was treating the couch like a trampoline.

Today was hard. Tomorrow might be too.

But tonight, I’m going to sit in the silence (if it ever comes), crack open an Olipop, and toast my survival. Because even when I feel completely undone…

This messy, maddening, magical work is still holy.