It was a Monday.

Not a cute Monday.

Not a “fresh start, new week” Monday.

No.

This was a behind-on-everything, rain-delay, invoices-staring-me-down, insurance-agent-calling, life-is-a-group-project-and-I’m-carrying-it kind of Monday.

The kind where you convince yourself you’re still in control by doing something small and productive.

Like sending one invoice.

Just one.

Because if I can send one invoice successfully, then clearly I am a woman who has her life together.

That was the lie I was telling myself… right before everything went sideways.

I’m downstairs, laptop open, trying to force productivity through sheer willpower while mentally juggling:

• Rain delays for tomorrow’s jobs
• Not enough interior work to send a crew out
• A parked car that somehow still got hit
• Emails
• Insurance
• Animals (too many, honestly)

And somewhere in the middle of this chaos…

I hear screaming.

Not casual sibling screaming.

No.

This was we’ve-seen-the-face-of-death screaming.

Harper comes running.

Wild-eyed. Breathless.

Three-year-old urgency at DEFCON 1.

“LYNNLEE’S SNAKE IS IN THE BARBIES.”

Pause.

Let’s just take a moment.

Because there are a lot of sentences I expected to hear in my life.

That was not one of them.

So we go upstairs.

Immediately, Lynnlee hits me with confidence only a child can have:

“It’s the big one. But it can’t get out.”

Oh.

Oh, sweet, naive optimism.

Because right on cue…

we realize… The snake is, in fact… out.

And now?

Now we are dumping out Barbie bins like we’re in a Black Friday clearance aisle.

Plastic legs. Tiny shoes. Disembodied doll heads.

A pink avalanche of chaos.

And we are following directions…

From a three-year-old.

“IT WAS OVER THERE.”

“NO NOW IT’S OVER HERE.”

“IT WENT WHOOSH.”

WHOOSH IS NOT A DIRECTION, HARPER.

At this point, we are one bad decision away from issuing a neighborhood BOLO.

I’m sweating. The girls are spiraling.

I’m questioning every life choice that led to owning reptiles.

And then…

We see it.

Curled up.

Still.

Menacing.

Looking like it just crawled straight out of a nature documentary titled

“Things That Will Ruin Your Entire Day.”

For one brief, irrational moment…

My brain goes:

“That looks like a coral snake.”

Now listen. Logically?

I KNOW it’s not.

Emotionally?

I have already updated my will and accepted my fate.

But I do what any rational, responsible adult does.

I grab it.

Victory, right?

WRONG.

Because apparently, snakes don’t just exist.

They retaliate.

Did you know…

Snakes can pee?

Not like a polite little drip.

No.

Like a freshly potty-trained toddler with zero aim and full confidence.

It was immediate.

It was aggressive.

It was… airborne.

My hair.

My clothes.

My skin.

My soul.

I have been marked.

Biblically.

You remember when I joked in a blog about not even liking apples and blaming Eve for all of this?

Yeah.

The serpents heard me.

And they said,

“Bet.”

This wasn’t an accident.

This was a message.

And now I have one very important piece of knowledge to pass down to future generations:

It takes an unreasonable number of washes to get snake urine out of your hair.

An unreasonable number.

Like “question your entire identity in the shower” level washes.

So if anyone needs me…

I’ll be:

• Re-evaluating my life choices
• Side-eyeing every reptile in this house
• And wondering if this is how it all ends

Not with a bang…

But with a snake.

And a Barbie bin.

And the unmistakable feeling that I have been personally humbled by creation itself.

Survival Tip:

If your child ever calmly tells you,

“The snake can’t get out…”

Go ahead and assume it already has.

And maybe… just maybe…

Don’t make jokes about Eve.

Because apparently?

They’re still listening.