At Christmas I was practically forcing NeeDohs into people’s hands like a suburban Oprah.

“You get a squishy. YOU get a squishy. Please… for the love of God… somebody take these squishies before I step on another one barefoot.”

Nobody cared.

They rolled around the bottom of toy bins collecting dog hair, glitter, and the emotional damage of being ignored by children who would rather eat wrapping paper than appreciate the amount of money I spent on stocking stuffers.

Fast forward a few months and apparently these things are now worth their weight in gold.

Mothers are calling stores at opening.

Children are trading them like tiny silicone cryptocurrency.

People are reselling blobs of goo online for sixty-nine dollars like they contain eternal youth and financial stability.

And somehow…

somewhere along the way…

I got sucked into it too.

Now I’m standing in Target whispering:

“Did you check the toy aisle?”

like I’m participating in an underground suburban operation.

Motherhood is wild.

One minute you’re trying to secretly throw toys away while your kids sleep because they haven’t touched them in six months.

The next?

Those same toys are apparently rare collector’s items that could probably pay for Justin’s college tuition. (Future engineer woo hoo) 

But while I was distracted by the Great Squishy Stock Market of 2026, something else happened quietly in the background.

My kids got bigger.

Like…

all at once.

Harper suddenly wants the “big girl potty” because apparently we are too mature for the little potty now.

Lynnlee threw aside the baby bike and rides her big girl bike like she’s training for the Tour de France.

And tomorrow Hailey drives herself alone for the first time while casually maintaining straight As like she isn’t actively trying to emotionally attack me with competence and independence.

I swear just yesterday I was cutting grapes into microscopic pieces and begging tiny humans to stop licking shopping carts.

Now one is driving.

One is flying down the sidewalk without training wheels.

And one is proudly announcing bathroom independence to the entire household like she just won an Olympic medal.

Meanwhile I’m over here collecting hobbies like emotional support raccoons.

Painting.

Writing.

Gardening.

Reading.

Crocheting.

Buying art supplies I use approximately five minutes a week before someone yells:

“MOMMMMMMMM.”

And here’s the truly ridiculous part.

I finished another Hugsy and Lynnlee adventure.

Wrote it.

Illustrated it.

Poured hours of my life into it.

Do you know what’s left before publishing?

The cover.

That’s it.

One final step.

But apparently my brain has decided that finishing projects is scarier than creating them.

Because unfinished things still feel safe somehow.

They still belong to you.

They still exist in possibility.

Finishing them means letting them go out into the world where people can love them…

or ignore them…

or misunderstand them.

Kind of like motherhood, honestly.

You spend years exhausted.

Begging for sleep.

Begging for quiet.

Begging for one uninterrupted trip to the bathroom.

And then one day the house gets a little quieter.

The bikes get bigger.

The toddlers become kids.

The teenagers grab car keys.

And somewhere in the middle of the chaos…

you start finding pieces of yourself again too.

A paintbrush here.

A book there.

A dream you forgot you were still allowed to have.

And maybe that’s the strange beauty of this season of life.

The kids are growing up…

but so am I.