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Did they drink enough water today?
Crap, did I give them water today?
Wait—Did I even pack lunches this morning or was that yesterday?
What day is it?
Why is time like this?Did I refill all the meds?
Call the specialist?
Was that appointment today or next week?
Did I already cancel it once?
Oh no.
Have they had too much screen time?
Have I talked to them today—like really talked?
Did I look in their eyes or just herd them from task to task like tiny, chaotic ducks?
Do they know?
Does the littlest feel ignored because the middle one had a flare and the oldest needed an email sent and I was just trying to find the damn brace while the third one had a meltdown?
Did we even do the PT & OT exercises today?
This week?
Or subtracting one?
Or am I just collecting providers like Pokémon because I’m terrified of missing something?
What if I’m already missing something?And money—God. The money.
How much have we spent this month already?
Did I pay that copay bill or just stare at it and cry?
Should I be working more?
Should I be home more?
We can’t afford for me to be sick, but we also can’t afford for me to burn out.
I wish we could afford healthier food. Or cleaning help. Or those camps she they want to attend. Or a vacation to look forward to.
They say money doesn’t buy happiness, but financial security would bring a peace we may never know.
What will break first—the bank account or me?I should tell my husband more about how I feel.
We haven’t talked—like really talked—in ages.
Everything is about logistics.
Who’s driving.
Who’s calling.
Who’s staying home.
Who’s emailing.
And even when we try, I’m already defensive,
And he’s already tired.
And we’re both scared.
And there’s no room left for softness.
Just survival.
Just… passing the baton between storms.God, this house.
Why is everything sticky?
How are there this many crumbs inside the couch?
Does anyone read the chore chart I made?
Is a chore chart even a reasonable ask for our crew?
I want them to be responsible and learn to be eventual adults—but how do I juggle their chronic fatigue & fluctuating pain with life skills and tidying up?I should clean.
I should play.
I should squeeze in a work-out.
I should stretch.
I should meal plan.
I should drink water.
Wait. Water.
When was the last time I drank water?
I don’t think I’ve eaten anything but the crust of their grilled cheese.
Again.
I should take care of myself.
Everyone says that—You can’t pour from an empty cup!
I don’t even know if I have a clean cup right now, let alone a moment to try and fill it.
I haven’t gone to the doctor in… a while.
How long is “a while”?
Like “skip a few birthdays” long or “this pain is probably fine” long?
But I can’t think about me.
Because the kids.
Because 504 plans.
Because flare-ups.
Because meltdowns.
Because school meetings.
Because someone’s always crying or sick or hungry or needing.
Because I’m the one that knows what each cry means.
But also—What if I don’t take care of myself
And I die young
And then who will know which ice pack to use?
Who will remember which medication causes the rash?
Who will be their advocate?
Who will fight for them?
Maybe my friends? I have the sweetest of friends, but I’m such a bad friend to them.
Every message feels like one more thing I forgot to answer.
I love them.
I miss them.
But I can’t keep up.
I cancel. I flake. I’m chronically behind.
They post park days and have coffee dates and I’m elbow-deep in medical forms and guilt.
I want to be present.
I want to show up.
But I’m already showing up for a million tiny emergencies.
I hope they know it’s not about them.
I hope they know I truly appreciate their role in our lives.
I hope they continue our friendship through all this chaos.
God, I am so tired.
Like bone-tired.
Like falling-asleep-standing-up-tired.
But I can’t sleep because there’s always something and the stress doesn’t let me rest anyway.
Should I be journaling this?
Making memories?
Creating magical moments instead of collapsing in the laundry?
They’re only little once.
They’re only little once.
They’re only little once.
I don’t have balance.
I don’t have answers.
But I have them—My wild, tender, bright-eyed girls.
Fierce and funny.
Messy and magical.
Soft in some places, sharp in others.
Louder than life, and still so gentle when it counts.
And somehow,
That has always been enough to keep going.
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To every mom doing all the things—you are seen. Even if no one else notices the weight you carry, your love is loud. Your presence is power. It would take an army of people & binders of information to try and do the work that you do. You are a true superhero.