I woke up tired.

Not “slept weird” tired.

Stayed up too late working on the book and hunting for the perfect theater wall décor tired.

Yes, I’m remodeling again.

No, I haven’t learned from the last two rooms.

Please don’t judge me, love.

We’re iced in until Tuesday.

It’s Saturday morning.

The entire family is home.

And here’s the thing…I actually love this. I love summer break energy. I love when all the kids are home. If my adult kids had shown up with overnight bags, I would’ve been thrilled.

But love doesn’t cancel out sleep deprivation.

I drag myself into the kitchen in my robe to make my sacred protein coffee and a breakfast bowl. I’m trying to lose those last stubborn pounds, which means starting the day with 75–100 grams of protein and a prayer.

Kris had the kids handled…until he went outside “to look for stew meat” and vanished like a man who sensed responsibility in the air.

By the time I get three kids situated with the exact meals and drinks they personally requested, I am already depleted. The teens are still asleep. The littles are wide-eyed, full of questions about ice, snow, power outages, and whether the apocalypse will affect snack time.

And wouldn’t you know it, Kris walks in just in time to watch me put hot sauce in my coffee instead of my breakfast bowl.

Yep.

That kind of day.

I made a fresh cup, stared at the counter, and decided:

Screw it. We’re remodeling.

I threw on my 90s “I wanted to be a thug in middle school” playlist and started breaking things. Limp Bizkit would’ve been proud.

We demoed the theater room. I taught Kris how not to burn the house down. We rewired walls. I jumped out of a hole in the wall yelling “HERE’S JOHNNY” because if you have a human-sized hole in drywall and don’t do that, are you even living?

Two kids screamed.

Harper ruined it for one.

Thanks, Harper.

Later, we cooked dinner. (Don’t worry the recipe is coming.)

Right in the middle of all this, because of course, it was mac and cheese time.

The water was boiling. I reached behind the pot for the pan like I’ve done a thousand times before, and the stove chose violence.

There was a jump of flame. Perfect timing. Olympic-level precision.

The bottom of my braid caught fire.

Not a dramatic scream-fire. Not a movie-fire. Just a quiet, very real my hair is on fire situation.

And I didn’t panic.

I didn’t dunk my head in water.

I didn’t smother it.

I calmly grabbed scissors, cut the burning section off my braid, and watched it fall to the tile floor.

Problem solved.

I stood there for a second, holding the scissors, smelling burnt hair, thinking:

Yep. That tracks.

If that’s not the most accurate snapshot of motherhood, I don’t know what is. You don’t scream. You don’t stop dinner. You just remove the fire and keep going.

It was one of those good family dinners. The kind that sneaks up on you. Hailey’s boyfriend joined us on FaceTime because the roads were dangerous. 

Shortly after Madison and her boyfriend joined us for Fortnite fun. Then Hailey and her… almost-boyfriend-talking-thing-I-don’t-know-what-we-call-this-but-I-LOVE-HIM joined the chaos.

He’s respectful. Kind. Raised right. You can tell his dad did a good job. That matters.

The night ended with us pulling up carpet, framing walls, and removing approximately one thousand million staples Kris installed three years ago to hold sound foam…even though I said not to.

Life lesson:

When you accidentally put hot sauce in your coffee, you’re allowed to start over.

But you add wine.

And by wine, I mean Baileys.

Calories be damned.

So I’ll sign off like this:

Here’s to days that are loud, chaotic, exhausting, and somehow still good.

Here’s to starting over..( raising my glass over here) whether it’s a cup of coffee, a room, or yourself.

And here’s hoping you’ll buy my new book in a few weeks when it finally releases… and tell me your best slightly homicidal hot-flash stories so I don’t feel alone.

Grace looks a lot like feeding your people anyway.