Category: Parenting in the Wild

Locked Doors and Tiny Hands

I’m going to tell you about the one thing I wanted on this hellish Monday morning: to pee, in private. Sounds simple, right? Listen, if you’re a parent, I already hear you cackling. Because you know there’s not enough locks and divine intervention in the universe for a mother to complete a fucking bathroom break alone.

Tale as old as time, ass on porcelain throne, I hear it: the Skrillex remix of my name. Sometimes it’s Mommy. Sometimes it’s MOMMEEEEEEEEE. This morning? It was the full government “Mother!”—the one they save for 911-level drama.

I’d barely gotten three seconds’ peace when suddenly stubby fingers appeared under the door, like something out of a low-budget horror movie. The soundtrack: rhythmic pounding, suspicious whispers, and the unmistakable clatter of LEGOs. I’m not proud, but I considered climbing out the window. I didn’t because, well, my pants were at my ankles and I don’t need a new headline in the PTA group chat just yet.

Here’s Why It Set Me Off

This was supposed to be my moment—my goddamn Mount Everest of tranquility. Instead, I’m conducting a full-scale negotiation while sitting on the toilet. I know some saints out there call it “connected parenting,” but I call it “I just want one uninterrupted bowel movement before I die.”

The chaos is relentless. You know when you’re so tired you forget if you already shampooed your hair, so you do it again (or never at all)? That’s how today felt, just in bodily function form. The bathroom was my fort, my panic room, my last stand—and they still breached the damn walls. And don’t give me that “just ignore them” advice. Have you met a preschooler? They escalate faster than a reality TV fight. My own bladder became collateral damage in the ongoing war against personal space.

What Actually Helped

Okay, here’s the trick I started using. I’m not about to tell you to “just build independence” or any of that Stepford crap. No, friend. Turns out all it took was one special bathroom basket—a bucket of random crap (think stickers, tiny snack packs, yesterday’s Happy Meal toy, whatever bribes I could source)—strategically outside the bathroom door. I call this my Peace Bribery Kit.

I told my kids: every time I go pee, you guys grab something from the basket and literally wait your turn. It’s Pavlovian. They see me head for the bathroom, they sprint for the basket. There’s still pounding (and the occasional argument over a squishy), but I get a window of peace long enough to maybe check Instagram.

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not magical. Sometimes they still storm the gates, and there’s always a risk you’ll run out of surprise loot. But I swear, the percentage of solo pisses has at least doubled. That’s empirical, baby.

This Is My New Normal

Is it dignified? No. But we signed up for the long game here, and sometimes survival is one weird trick and a half-empty basket. This is why I simplify literally everything else in life: I need to save my brainpower for where it matters (like strategic bathroom bribes).

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go raid the dollar store and prepare for round two. Wishing you many silent, sacred minutes for whatever bodily function you choose.

Where in the Actual Hell Are Your Shoes?

At 7:36am Monday, my youngest hit me with seven of the eleven possible crises that occur before school. Socks fell off somewhere mysterious. Cat puked on backpack. Someone (probably me, but I’m pleading the fifth) forgot to put the ice pack back in the freezer. But the crowning moment—the spicy little chili on my existential breakfast taco—was when my kid asked, deadpan, “Where are my shoes?”

I counted to ten. Silently. Because if I spoke, only expletives would come out. Those shoes were on his feet, in our house, ten hours ago. Where did they go? No one knows. Not the dog (he tried to eat a Croc, but the shoes in question were non-edible, two-day-old sneakers). Not the older sibling (wouldn’t mind, couldn’t care less). Not even me. My IQ drops by half every Monday morning. That’s just science.

We tore the house apart. Like a SWAT team with no plan. Under beds, behind toilets (ask no questions: I have boys), inside the oven—listen, motherhood is a horror film sometimes, and the jump scares are shoes. Clock ticks. Bus ETA: three minutes. Kid looking at me, unbothered, as if he is not about to be the shoeless weirdo at school.

Why Mondays Destroy Souls

Here’s why this hit like a meteor straight to my frontal cortex. Monday is the Reset of Doom. Everything seems possible. Coffee’s fresh. You’re about to slay the week, maybe even brush your hair. But nope. Life is a prank show and your kids are the hosts.

It’s not about the shoes, right? It’s about the never-ending, soul-punching list of things you have to keep track of in your parental brain. Left shoe. Right shoe. Water bottle. Permission slip. Snacks. That stupid science diorama. If any single piece falls out of mental Tetris, everything crashes.

I know, “just be more organized!” Fuck off, Sharon. My organizational system is a sticky note pyramid and a hope spiral. I’m only human. Monday is a tornado. My kid’s disappearing shoes just happened to fly out of it this time.

The Actual Trick That Saved My Sanity

You know what I ended up doing? I stopped looking for the shoes. Like, I just… quit. My kid cried for a minute, and I let him. I forced myself to leave the mess, the missing Nikes, the guilt pile on the floor.

Instead, I handed him the last pair of shoes that fit (sorta, maybe-marginally legal by school standards), and said, “Congrats, you get to be the kid with Halloween skeleton shoes in May. Let’s go.”

Was it a parenting gold-medal moment? Hell, no. But here’s the deal: sometimes letting go of the idea that you have to solve every mini-disaster is the move. My tip? Pick one—just ONE—thing to drop in the heat of chaos. Let a ball hit the floor. Let the universe roll its eyes. You’ll survive. Your kids will, too.

Parenting, Man. It’s Just Shoes.

We both survived. The world didn’t end. When I stopped making lost shoes The Problem of the Month, everything chilled a little. Maybe it’s not about finding some inner zen—but sometimes you have to accept you’re gonna be the family known for odd shoes and messy mornings. So be it.

This is why I pre-pack backpacks at night, even when my body wants to rot on the couch.

Monday: Bringing the Chaos Like a Champ

I knew exactly 0 seconds of peace this morning. I had what I thought was a firm grip on life: lunches were packed, reminders were set, and I even had the audacity to enjoy a hot coffee before waking up the gremlins—uh, children.

Enter the Monday Plot Twist. The seven-year-old—usually prone to meltdowns over things like which hoodie is the only acceptable one—today decided that wearing any socks at all was a crime against humanity. Seriously? We’ve worn socks every damn day for YEARS. Suddenly they’re the devil?

It went from casual negotiation to outright shouting in under a minute. “These are bumpy!” “These are slidey!” “My toes are TRAPPED!” Like, kid, what do you want from me, a silk foot-glove personally spun by angels?! I just stood there (socks in hand, wild hair, coffee abandoned, eye twitching) wondering how the hell we got here. The clock was yelling at us to move faster. The older kid was making a peanut butter tornado in the kitchen. My brain evaporated.

Why It Pissed Me Off So Much

Of all the things to battle about, SOCKS? The morning was already a high-wire act. We were running late. I had to be logged in for work in, oh, 23 minutes. Nothing makes you question your life choices quite like trying to rationalize with a tiny human losing their actual mind over cotton foot tubes.

This wasn’t just any old meltdown, though. It was a sneak attack, and what really got me was how fast everything spiraled. There’s no warning siren for this level of chaos. I couldn’t fix it, couldn’t logic my way out. Just stood there, my mental to-do list bursting at the seams, wondering if Oprah does giveaways for personal assistants who handle sock drama.

Part of me was just plain tired of having to be the human sponge soaking up everyone’s stress and odd hang-ups. Why does the universe choose to fuck with me over things no one warns you about in the parenting manuals?

What Actually Got Us Out The Door

Okay, here’s where I copped out and stopped fighting. I gave the kid a choice: shoes with no socks (FINE, rebel, whatever), shoes with the thinnest socks I could find, or rain boots “just for fun”—because sometimes bribery is fine. The real trick wasn’t even giving the choice; it was letting my panic simmer down for a damn second.

When everything is going off the rails, my one practical hack is this: stop. Just ask: “Is this actually going to matter by noon?” Half the time, I can let the battle go, or at least choose a different hill to die on. Kid went to school in rain boots. Was it the weirdest look? Yes. Did anyone die or get arrested? No. Did I still hate Mondays? Also yes, but at least everyone survived.

Gentle Close (Kinda)

Some Mondays, the chaos wins. But sometimes the hack is literally just: let the little crap slide, and save your energy for the weird existential stuff that’ll definitely be next.

This kind of Monday makes me triple down on prepping what I can (and always having extra socks in every imaginable freakin’ texture).