A Mom’s Unscripted Life

Author: momorris

  • In Remembrance of Chuck

    Yesterday was a series of unfortunate events with a deceptively smooth beginning. After work, I decided to take my sons to the playground, and everything was sunshine and rainbows—almost literally, since the weather was cool enough to keep us out there for a whole hour. Ted, my little daredevil, bravely climbed up the big kid play set. He sat down at the top of the slide and started scooting down, but when he was a quarter of the way through, fear kicked in, and he scrambled back to the top. Proud mom moment: he conquered his Everest solo!

    We had the playground to ourselves, making it a run-and-follow fiesta for Ted, with his brother and me trailing behind in the stroller. We eventually headed home, unloaded the chaos, and released the dogs from their kennels. They lined up at the back door like a canine NASCAR race was about to start. When I opened it, Raya and Arya sprinted straight for our resident troublemaker, Frankie boy. Thinking I should referee whatever mischief was brewing, I followed outside.

    That’s when tragedy struck. I had forgotten that I left the chickens out to graze. And just like that, my earlier high deflated faster than a budget balloon at a birthday party. The rooster, Chuck, began flapping his wings protectively as his hens congregated near the gate. But poor Chuck never stood a chance. Frankie, our Staffordshire Terrier, leaped on him, feathers flying everywhere like the world’s saddest pillow fight. Chuck squawked, I screamed, and feathers fluttered as I tried to corral the dogs.

    Somehow, I managed to usher all the dogs inside except for Frank and Arya, who galloped to the far side of the yard. Chuck dangled from Frank’s mouth like a feathered scarf, and finally, with my frantic yells, they came inside. When I walked over to Chuck, I found only a heap of feathers and his lifeless body. Tears flowed unbidden as I stood in shock.

    Don’t get me wrong, Chuck was a bit of a jerk, but no one deserves an exit like that. Thankfully, my husband arrived just in time. He handled Chuck’s remains while I rounded up the hens and tended to my two screaming children inside. This one’s in memory of Chuck, the not-so-gentle rooster. Let’s hope today is kinder to our feathered friends.

  • Fateful Encounter

    I’m not sure if many people know the charming tale of how I met my husband, but it’s a story of faith and serendipity. Back in 2019, I had a bit of a “party girl” phase—yes, those who knew me back then might remember the social whirlwind. I loved my weekday outings, and at the time, I was seeing someone else. It was during a weeknight escapade at a Tampa bar on SoHo Street that things took a divine, albeit slightly tipsy, turn.

    That night, my phone decided to pursue a solo adventure, much to my dismay. I kept insisting to my then-boyfriend that it was “God’s will” for my phone to disappear, which, in hindsight, ties in perfectly with my husband’s current ribbing about my penchant for divine intervention.

    Fast forward to the next day—hello, Friday! Sans phone, I asked my friend, A, via iPad (thank you, technology!) if we could hit up St. Pete. He was game, but as the universe would have it, plans took a detour. Amidst the jiving and imbibing, I bumped into an old work acquaintance at the bar. As I inquired about his new job, he introduced me to a charming savior, T.

    T and I bonded over a bathroom break—the sacred ground where many lifelong female friendships are forged. Upon returning, I realized my friends had pulled a disappearing act, stranding me. My work acquaintance kindly offered a ride, albeit with an itinerary that was less than appealing. Luckily, T overheard and, during our second bathroom interlude, offered salvation with a ride home. Bless her, because I promptly passed out in her car.

    Little did I know, my future husband was in the back seat that night. However, I was far too inebriated to notice. Fast forward 6-7 months to Oktoberfest, where T reintroduced us. She was his supervisor, and when we met again, it was like that magical moment when the puzzle pieces click into place. We chatted and laughed the night away, and from that moment, we were inseparable.

    Oh, and remember my AWOL phone? The day after that fateful night, my parents tracked it down via Life360. T, being the gem she is, left her contact on a napkin on my fridge after escorting me safely into my apartment. Life has a funny way of unfolding, and I genuinely believe that none of it would’ve happened without a little divine choreography.

  • Grocery Adventures

    Most weeks, my husband and I have grocery hauls down to a fine art, but this week, the universe had other plans. With a weekend that felt like a kid-fueled circus, we bravely attempted a grocery run on a workday. After clocking out, my husband and I found our stomachs growling, so we made a pit stop for dinner before heading to Lowe’s grocery store.

    Dinner was a theatrical masterpiece starring Ted, who decided it was a Michelin-star experience to lick butter off bread and suck dipping sauce off fries, leaving a smashed potato crime scene in his wake. And let’s not forget the grand finale—Ted belting out a scream concert every time Dad dared check his phone.

    Then there was Remy, who, after a milk explosion on my shoulder, voiced his displeasure loudly every time I tried to set him in his car seat. So, I surrendered to the chaos and embraced the art of eating with one hand.

    As we finally retreated to the car, Ted delivered a blowout—of the aromatic variety. Cue a sprint to the store entrance with the little one strapped to my chest and a quick game of parental tag initiating between my husband and me. But the punchline? The men’s room was undergoing divine intervention, aka cleaning. My husband, with a grin, said, “I guess it’s God’s will,” nearly causing my demise.

    So, I took the reins, adeptly changing Ted’s diaper with Remy still doing his best opera singer impression strapped to my chest. Once the scene was cleaned up, Ted joyfully hopped into one of the little car grocery carts, and our shopping expedition became surprisingly smooth.

    Feeling victorious, we waltzed back to the car as if we’d conquered Everest, only to glance at the time and—bam—realize it was already 7:30! Seriously, how do the days zoom by faster than a toddler when you’re trying to catch them?

  • Brain Overload

    I’m not sure if anyone else experiences this, but I think my brain runs on overload 24/7. It’s as if my dreams are blueprints for the next day’s chaos. I catch myself sounding like my mom: “Don’t forget tomorrow is trash day,” “Did you remember to feed Eufy?” “We should bring that leftover chicken noodle soup to work for lunch.” Oh, and yes, I sometimes refer to myself as “we.”

    You’d think it’s because I just had a baby, and everyone says your memory takes a dive post-kids, but let’s be real—I’ve been this way even before the little ones came along. Part of me wonders if I should get tested for ADHD, while the other half insists, “Don’t you dare! You need this overactive brain to juggle all the ridiculous tasks you put in your job jars.”

    And don’t get me started on the superpowers of hearing and smelling everything now. I used to scoff at parents who claimed that, but there I was last night, wide awake because Toddler Ted was snoring like a freight train. Picture me lurking in the dark with one of those booger-sucking contraptions, waiting for him to open his eyes so I could make my booger-extraction pitch.

    He finally woke up this morning, and I seized the opportunity—only to be met with a look that screamed, “Crazy lady, get the heck away from my nose!”

    And here I am, still in my pajamas, contemplating whether anyone else lives in a world this bizarre. Naturally, I decided to share it with the internet. So, here are my random morning musings, delivered straight from my brain for your amusement. Enjoy!

  • Work life balance

    So, for those of you who don’t know, I wear a few hats: full-time logistics analyst, mom of two, and MBA student currently on a two-week break. Consider it my gift to my sanity!

    No one tells you that reentering the workforce after kids is a double-edged sword. On one hand, I relish the escape from my adorable tornadoes at home, even if admitting that feels as scandalous as a squirrel crashing a fancy tea party. Yes, having adult conversations that don’t involve fictional blue trains is a joy, although the mom guilt sometimes hits harder than a rogue LEGO underfoot.

    When I return home, it’s like a reunion scene from a rom-com—except with more chaos and less saxophone music. That said, there are days when I fantasize about being a stay-at-home mom who schedules enriching activities like reading, playtime, and educational field trips with military precision.

    Alas, my family must endure my love for structure. My husband, although occasionally eye-rolling at my scheduling fervor, often asks for the day’s itinerary as if I’m the household cruise director.

    One thing I focus on is ditching the phone after work. Once home, I dive into floor-time gibberish with Remy and navigate imaginary terrains with Ted’s cars. Ted has recently developed an addiction to climbing on my back while I gallop around the house like a caffeine-fueled pony, a delightful, if exhausting, ritual.

    Most days, my mom guilt frowns upon laziness, thanks in part to those social media posts that suggest if you’re not crafting a DIY spaceship out of recycled bottles, you’re failing as a parent. But hey, moms, it’s okay not to be okay. If you’re giving all you’ve got, your kids notice more than you realize. So cut yourself some slack—we’re human, after all, and parenting is one of those “learn-on-the-job” gigs. And really, aren’t we all first-time moms with each new adventure?

    Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some spine realignment to do before Ted demands another round of ‘Mommy Horsey.’

  • Potty Training Chronicles

    So, we embarked on the adventure of potty training my oldest son, Ted. Picture this: I’m still on maternity leave, and my mom, bless her, looks after the kids while I work. Childcare costs these days could make anyone cry, and let’s face it, who can you trust more than your mom? Anyway, day one of potty training started with a bang—or should I say, a flush. The first two pees hit the target, and I even intercepted a potential disaster before it happened. I was ushering Ted to the bathroom every thirty minutes like clockwork, tablet in tow for a bit of entertainment.

    I’ve decided not to move the potty to any other room, because plumbing isn’t optional—it’s not a traveling act. But by the third bathroom trip, Ted was over it. Bored out of his little mind, he found his mischievous streak. While I was in the midst of feeding my other son, Ted somehow Houdini-ed his way out of his romper and diaper, and peed on the carpet by the back door. All this happened just five feet away, with me blissfully unaware thanks to the cacophony of tablets, TVs, barking dogs, and Ted’s adorable gibberish. No biggie, I thought, just another day in the life of a multitasking mom. Cleaned him up, changed him, and tackled the rug like a champ—though I did suspect the dogs of egging him on with some sort of secret dog-baby alliance.

    Next up: another misfire. This time, Ted’s aim was a bit off, resulting in a foot soak for me. I couldn’t help but laugh while trying not to cry as I congratulated him on hitting at least part of the target. But the pièce de résistance was the grande finale: the diaper blowout. The sight of that chunky masterpiece almost made me toss the underwear altogether. In a moment of “What would Grandma do?”, I threw Ted back into a fresh diaper and headed straight for the toilet with the offending garment, scrubbing and rinsing while simultaneously trying to cry and laugh my way through it.

    Finally, with one hour left until Dad returned to tag in, I was ready to surrender. And there you have it—a day in the glamorous life of potty training. Stay tuned for the next thrilling episode!

  • Breastfeeding

    So, new moms, if you’re considering breastfeeding, let me be your herald of hard truths: it’s not for the faint of heart. When it comes to a baby trying to latch on to a nipple, my best comparison would definitely be a baby bird fighting for a worm in the ground. There’s the wide-eyed determination, the tiny little mouth opening in search, and let’s not forget, the flapping—minus the feathers, but definitely with plenty of adorable chaos! With my first son, I thought I was ready. I bought all the books, read everything there was to read, interrogated experienced moms, and even sat through a lactation class. Yet, when he arrived, all those tips and tricks turned into a swirl of confusion. The lactation nurse breezed in and instructed me to hold him like a football—apparently, he’d do the rest. Well, that might have been true when she placed him on me, but when I tried, it was like he’d found a much more interesting channel on a tiny invisible TV.

    Nobody warned me about the pain either. As if my boobs turning into rock-like pain sensors wasn’t enough, my uterus was staging its own protest march back to normal. After days of trying and failing, I switched to pumping—only to discover it was breastfeeding’s evil twin. Seriously, if the machine’s doing too much pulsing and not enough contracting at the wrong size, it’s like a medieval torture device. Physical intimacy moved to the back burner because, with my tender-as-porcelain bust, even imagining a breeze touching them was a ‘nope’ for me.

    Then, along came my second son, the sleeping, feeding wonder child. He latched on effortlessly like it was his superpower, and suddenly milk was flowing in 6-ounce increments instead of the paltry 1-2 ounces I sweated over with my first. With him, it was all about convenience—no more panicking over bottle temperature or cleaning the million tiny pieces that come with pumping. Though I still pump once or twice a day, it’s more of a friendly check-in than a full-blown session. Nights became a snuggle fest, with him and me both blissfully half-asleep on a Boppy pillow, ignoring the world.

    On the downside, my firstborn gave me major side-eye—a potent mix of jealousy and silent judgment that makes my mom guilt flare. We made it three months breastfeeding with him, while with his baby brother, we’re cruising past four. But here’s the big reveal: breastfeeding in public is not the scandal people make it out to be. Sure, there are occasional looks, but compared to the chaos of bottle feeding logistics, it’s a walk in the park with center-stage views of zero mummy meltdowns over forgotten formula. Who knew that simple, hassle-free and spontaneous wins the day?

  • Weekend fun

    So, let me set the stage: It’s been a wild ride in our household. Remy had his four-month check-up on Friday and ended up with a fever and a case of the poops. Meanwhile, our little adventurer Theodore, aka Teddy, was grumpy because of what we thought were teething issues. Turns out, the real culprit was him jamming his Stanley straw a bit too far into his gums—yikes!

    In the midst of all this, my husband informs me he wants to hit up Dirtbags with his friends after we’ve completed his homework for his classes. I gave him the green light but with a condition: we’re cleaning up before heading out. Priorities, right?

    While attempting to feed my four-month-old, Teddy decides it’s time to channel his inner sprinkler system by grabbing his straw and whipping it around. Water everywhere, I’m getting drenched, and so is Remy, who’s giving him a “really, dude?” look. Teddy finds this hilarious until I break out the “stern mom” voice, which instantly activates the tear ducts. He points to a scrape on his leg—leftover from his latest gravity experiment—and demands a healing kiss. So, I shift Remy to one side, letting Ted slide onto my lap with his treasured blanket in tow.

    Meanwhile, my husband is the MVP, tidying the kitchen and sprucing up the house while I’m in the thick of our domestic circus performance. We somehow manage to shower, get dressed, pack snacks, fill bottles with water, change diapers, and strap the kids into car seats before finally making our grand escape.

    Once we arrive, Teddy sprints towards the distant playground, which kicks off the “toddler chase” event of the day. In the chaos, Remy decides it’s feeding time, so there I am at a picnic table with my own version of a food truck, trying to breastfeed discreetly. Now, let me clarify: I used to be one of those people who’d comment, “Oh my gosh, that lady is breastfeeding in public.” And now, here I am—a card-carrying member of the titty-slinger club. Oh, how the tables have turned!

    We stayed until 8 p.m., which was way later than necessary. During that time, Ted managed to escape from us four times while we were trying to chat with friends. I had to feed Remy three times, field sticky hands from kids holding suckers, and thwart my son’s attempts to make friends with strangers’ dogs—by grabbing their faces! Not to mention, a lawn chair and an outdoor table barely survived his rampage. Meanwhile, the other moms and I were trying to converse about our adventurous past and dream vacations, all while the kids screamed and ran around like we were extras in a chaotic comedy film.

    The guys, of course, just kicked back with their beers as if Shelby and I weren’t starring in a live-action circus, with the babies as ringleaders. Honestly, there should be a societal rule that if you see a mom with kids in public, you automatically give her kudos. Seriously, the survival of every outing is nothing short of magical.

    When we finally convinced the husbands it was time to leave, our kids were already screaming in their car seats. That’s when I remembered we needed milk and diapers. So, naturally, I turned to my husband, who agreed to run into the store. Twenty minutes later, I’m still in the parking lot with two crying kids, while passersby give me that “Wow, that lady looks crazy” look—not realizing I feel every bit as crazy as I look, LOL.

    When my husband finally returned, smiling from ear to ear, he cheerfully announced, “I got cookies too!” I just stared at him, thinking, “Really? You took extra time for cookies?” If looks could sigh, mine certainly did.

    You’d think my saga ended there, but oh no, it just kept going. I’m starting to believe I’m a glutton for punishment. After getting thoroughly soaked in North Carolina’s humid evening weather and slathered with bug spray, I decided to shower the boys and myself. Given the late hour, my husband stayed downstairs to feed and cuddle the dogs, who’d been cooped up in their kennels all day.

    Ted and I were up first. I managed to bathe him and keep him entertained—score one for Mom! This gave me the false confidence that I could quickly grab Remy, who was mid-scream, and rinse him off too. So, I hopped out of the shower, scooped up Remy, and jumped back in, leaving Ted occupied with his toys. Holding onto a slippery Remy, I managed to wash him without either of us meeting the shower floor head-on.

    Then I called out for my husband—silence. I tried four more times with the same result. Realizing I was on my own, I went into problem-solving mode: I held Remy with one hand, tossed a towel on the floor, laid him on it, and finished up myself. Then I grabbed Remy, sprinted to the room to diaper him while drying him en route. Just as I think I’ve pulled it off, here’s Ted, hollering “maaaaammmmmm!” I mutter my go-to mantra, “I can do this, I can do this,” and set Remy in his crib, then dash to collect Ted. After drying and diapering him, I quickly toss on T-shirts for both before shutting off the shower.

    By the time I hand Ted his bottle my husband strolls in. He’s all, “Dang, why are you so mad?” I inform him that I was practically singing his name, and he replies, “Oh, I didn’t hear you, but the boys look fine.” I’m standing there, still wet and naked, thinking, “Really? Of course, they’re fine now.”

    Sometimes, I swear I live in an alternate universe where I’m the only one who truly sees the chaos. I throw on clothes, grab Remy, tuck Ted next to his dad, and put on his favorite movie, Sing, to settle them down. My husband heads back downstairs for his cookies and a glass of water—because priorities, obviously. Ah, the perfect end to another perfectly chaotic day.

  • Mommy 101

    I think the hardest part about being a mother is never really knowing if you’re doing the right thing for your child. Sure, there are books and countless posts from other moms, but sometimes it just feels like I’m flunking Motherhood 101. These thoughts often hit me amidst the endless whining of my 21-month-old toddler and the relentless back-and-forth with my 4-month-old baby.

    At work, you get feedback or at least some sort of direction. But as a mom, it’s a daily battle with unpredictable attitudes, dodging spoonfuls of unwanted peas, and, of course, becoming an unintentional expert in diaper forensics. I mean, who knew poop would demand such meticulous attention?

    Some days, it genuinely feels like my kids have teamed up, plotting in their secret baby code, to see how far they can push me before I morph into a cartoon character and start speaking in gibberish. Staying home on maternity leave has given me a peek into life as a Stay-At-Home Mom, and let me tell you, it’s no picnic. Being a working mom is tough too, but at least there’s the luxury of a coffee break without peas being hurled at you—and the occasional adult conversation that doesn’t involve negotiating nap times.

    It’s mainly the constant whining and the escape attempts when the toddler hears “no,” or when he gets jealous of the attention his baby brother’s getting. But some days are truly wonderful, filled with giggles and playtime that melt my heart. Yet, with those joys come the sneaky mom guilt and the pressing questions: “Am I doing this right?” “Am I a bad mother?”

    Honestly, if I manage to get through the day without turning my life into a slapstick comedy, I consider it a win.

    Take yesterday, for example: our day began like a rerun episode of “The Chaos Chronicles.” The baby was up first, crying out for his morning breastfeeding session while I desperately tried to remember what sleep felt like. After waking up, I changed him and nudged my husband out of bed to let the dogs out. He came back, and we embarked on the morning routine in the bed we share with our 21-month-old, who’s decided his bed just isn’t up to par, but that saga is for another day.

    Back in bed, I set up my little feeding station, nestled the baby, and just as I start feeding him, my husband masters the art of the ninja escape to go shooting with his buddies. At this point, my toddler’s sixth sense kicks in like clockwork, and he knows Dad’s left the building. Cue the screaming, and we’re off to the races.

    In a flash, both my toddler and I are undressing and leaping into the shower, hoping the water can drown out the whines. We emerge to the sounds of the baby crying in the bassinet, and the next phase of the morning circus begins. It’s dressing time, diaper time, teeth brushing, and baby retrieval timed to the second. I gather my glasses from the previous night, scoop up the essentials and the boys, and do my improvised balancing act down the stairs. I usually throw all the stray items into a garbage bag, strap the baby to me, and wait for the toddler to attach himself for the descent. That’s just the first hour.

    Next up in our reality show is breakfast, a daily gamble. The trick is not knowing what’s going to be “in” today. French toast? Nope. Eggs? Absolutely not. A bottle and yogurt-covered blueberries? Somehow, that’s an acceptable compromise. Meanwhile, I’ve become a “laptop mom,” because without a screen, my toddler transforms into a tiny bear with no respect for personal boundaries or parental sanity.

    With him temporarily pacified, I pour what feels like a life-preserving glass of coffee and coax the baby back onto the boob to halt any impending meltdown. And there you have it—just another day in the life, all before 8 AM.