Makeup tutorials say “10 minutes to flawless.”

In this house, 10 minutes means mascara on me, lipstick on Harper, and a suspicious sticky mess on the cat.

Perfectly normal, right?

Let’s get one thing out of the way: I am not one of those women.

You know the ones… glowing skin, flawless foundation, winged eyeliner so sharp it could cut glass, and a makeup bag that doesn’t look like a toddler packed it during a sugar high?

Yeah. No. That’s not me.

I’m the kind of woman who has to ask her teenage daughter,

“Wait… does concealer go before or after foundation? Or is that the same thing?”

Hailey just sighs, shakes her head, and gives me that slow blink of pity only a teenager can master.

I try. I really do.

I even bought the little spongy thing—only to learn it’s called a beauty blender and no, you can’t just rub it dry across your face like a paintbrush. Apparently, it has to be damp. Not soaked. Not dripping. Just… “damp.”

Like… rain-kissed or gently weeping, I guess?

Witchcraft.

I immediately went back to using my fingers.

And even when I manage to carve out a sacred seven minutes to slap on a little magic and hope… the real mayhem begins.

Because those seven minutes?

That’s all it takes for Lynnlee and Harper to turn the bathroom into a full-scale glitter apocalypse.

They’ve got their play makeup kits and are suddenly beside me, smearing color across their cheeks, talking about contour like they’re filming a YouTube tutorial.

“Look, Mommy! I’m doing the lipstick like you!”

As my best friend would say: Bless it.

I’m half trying to get mascara on my eyelashes instead of my eyelid, and half making sure Harper doesn’t “highlight” the cat. Meanwhile, there’s a suspicious blue goo forming near the sink and I’m 80% sure it used to be toothpaste… or slime… or both.

My “makeup collection” consists of three items: foundation (I think), mascara, and a lip gloss that’s been rolling around in my bag since the Obama era.

Meanwhile, Hailey’s collection looks like Sephora exploded in her room. She’s the contour queen of our household, and the only reason I’ve ever heard the phrase “baking your face” without assuming it involved cookies. Or maybe it was basting?

And yet, as I stand there in our chaotic cloud of powder, pink, and pretend glamour, something hits me:

This is the magic.

Not the makeup.

Not the bronzer (is that what it’s called?).

Not the barely-there brows.

But this.

Them watching me try.

Laughing with me.

Joining in.

Learning how to feel beautiful… and how to clean the sink afterward.

(Which, honestly, may be the most important lesson of the day.)

So no, I’ll never be a contour queen.

But I’ve got two tiny beauty assistants, one brilliant teenage makeup coach, and a bathroom full of memories.

That’s more than enough glow for me.