Picture this… the morning  starts with that first hot, soul-moving sip of coffee. For a split second, you remember—you’re not just “Mom,” keeper of forms and finder of lost Barbies…you’re a woman. Another sip, and you’re actually warm inside, daring to walk back to the bedroom with a still-HOT cup of coffee in your hand. No crumbs underfoot, no chaos. Just you, a bed, and the realization: it’s been approximately three hundred million years since you had a passionate, mind-blowing… let’s call it guacamole-making session.

The avocados used to be spicy. They used to make you shout bam! like Emeril. Now? You can’t even remember the last time you smashed one. But you’re sipping your coffee, feeling cute, and you snap a provocative little photo. Why not? Tonight, the guacamole’s going to have some kick.

Then the kids wake up.

By 8:00 a.m., one teen needs a form signed, another needs a ride, and the littles are fighting over a Barbie you’re 97% sure you buried in the backyard. You’re making breakfast, brushing teeth, wiping butts, and cleaning crumbs—crumbs that shouldn’t even exist yet because nobody’s eaten anything.

Lunchtime rolls around, and you check your phone. Husband is way too excited about tonight’s spicy guac. Oh no. He’s counting down. Meanwhile, the countdown in your head is: 5 hours until he’s home, 9 until the kids are asleep, and an eternity until your head and body agree on anything other than “just survive.” You tell yourself just do it… but then remember your 17-year-old used to yell JUST DO IT while thrusting around the house. Welp. That mental image killed the mood.

By dinner, the kids are throwing only some of their food (progress?). Husband bursts through the door like yippee-ki-yay, motherf*er! and eyes you like you’re still the coffee-sipping goddess from this morning. Except right now, you’re a feral kitten fighting your toddler for the last chicken nugget, and losing.

He gives you the eyebrow wiggle. The look. The “so…?”

Buddy. Read the room. The kids are streaking naked down the hall, the bathtub’s overflowing, and I’m covered in a mix of ketchup, mac and cheese, and despair. And you think this is foreplay?

By the time the house is finally pretending to sleep, I collapse into bed smelling like yesterday’s trash. He rolls over with that hopeful grin, ready for mucho caliente guacamole.

But tonight? The avocados are unripe. The guac is cold. And the only thing I’m serving up is maybe five seconds of exhausted hand-holding before tomorrow’s chaos hits repeat. Try me again in another three hundred million years.