I sat down.
I had a hot-ish coffee. I had a shirt with no stains-yet. I had thoughts—big, bold, adult ones. Thoughts involving mortgage rates, existential podcasts, and possibly a crockpot recipe that didn’t start with “dump.”

My friend called. We were two sentences into a grown-up exchange. You know, one of those rare conversational unicorns where no one mentions Paw Patrol.

Then—footsteps.
Fast. Feral. Full of momentum.

“MOM! MOM! JACK STOLE MY INVISIBLE TOAST!”
I blinked. “It’s not a real—”
“He’s EATING IT RIGHT NOW!”
The phone speaker went silent. I returned with, “Sorry, invisible carbs crisis.”

Back to adult conversation.
We tried to discuss travel. Or politics. Or maybe oat milk trauma. I can’t remember because—

“MOM! Can we microwave coins?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because I like electricity.”
“Why do you like it?”
“I… what?”

We pivoted again.
She mentioned a cruise. I said “That sounds ama—”
“MOM! There’s water on the cat. I think she sneezed into the bowl.”

Pookie, by the way, was glaring at everyone. Likely drafting a formal eviction notice.

I relocated to the laundry room for privacy. I sat on the dryer. She asked about how I was feeling lately. I said, “Honestly, it’s been a little—”

BANG. SCREAM. THUD.
“Mom, Chunk made a portal in the closet.”
“Excuse me?”
“He’s screaming in there but it’s also a race car now.”

I walked back into the living room where someone was wearing a lampshade, someone was naked from the waist down, and the cat was standing in the corner like she was summoning something unspeakable.

Back to the phone. “Anyway, I was just saying that emotionally I feel like a—”
“MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM MOM—”

The call ended when one of my children demanded to “talk to the lady inside your phone” and tried to shove a cracker into the speaker.

And that is why I haven’t finished a single adult sentence in five years.
I communicate entirely in emojis now.
My emotional state? 🫠
My conversational style? 🧹🍷🚪🧃🔊