I’m not complaining
722 Words
Dear Diary,
Have you ever felt like life is a never-ending episode of a sitcom where you're both the overworked protagonist and the punchline? Welcome to my 9-5 grind. Actually, scratch that—it’s more like a 24/7 grind with some commercial breaks for sleep (if I’m lucky) and half-hearted attempts at self-care. Let me paint you a picture.
The alarm goes off, not because I’m ready to rise and shine but because I’m the designated human to get everything going. Coffee? Check. Breakfast? Check. Lost shoe retrieval service? Double check. Then comes the school run—oh, the school run. Nothing tests your patience like trying to herd groggy kids into a car while one is missing a sock, and the other is crying because “toast is weird today.”
And let’s not forget the carpool lane wars. There’s always that one parent who thinks they’re in The Fast and the Furious and another who apparently forgot how to drive. Meanwhile, I’m there gripping the steering wheel, smiling through clenched teeth, wondering why this system hasn’t collapsed under its own chaos.
Then, just when you think you’ve earned a moment of peace—oh no, diary, life has other plans. Groceries! Because apparently, kids need to eat every day. So, off to the supermarket I go, armed with a list I will immediately forget as soon as I step through the doors. And don’t get me started on the unspoken grocery store rules. Why is the person with one item in front of me in the express lane suddenly paying in exact change?
But wait, there’s more! After-school activities. The kids can’t just be, can they? No. One has soccer, the other has gymnastics, and for some reason, I’m always the only parent who remembered to bring snacks. There I am, handing out granola bars like I’m Oprah, while secretly dreaming of the day someone else volunteers for snack duty.
By the time I finally get home, I just want to collapse. Maybe even sit on the couch and stare at a wall. But no, Diary, that’s when my partner walks in. “Hey, what’s for dinner?” they ask, like it’s a question I’ve been dying to hear all day. Dinner?! At that moment, I wonder if there’s a way to put cereal on a plate and call it gourmet.
Of course, I cook something. I always do. Because I’m Mom (or Partner or The Responsible Adult—titles I never applied for but seem to have won anyway). Dinner is served, and just when I think I might finally be able to sit down and relax—BOOM. “Where’s my science project?” “I need this signed by tomorrow.” Or my personal favorite, “The dog threw up in the hallway.”
Diary, I know it sounds like I’m complaining. Okay, fine, I am complaining. But here’s the thing: there’s a weird, twisted magic in this chaos. Somewhere between the school runs and snack duty, the eye rolls and the “What’s for dinner?” there’s this life I’ve built—a life that sometimes drives me to the brink but also makes me laugh until my stomach hurts.
Like yesterday, when my youngest tried to convince me their homework was eaten by the dog. Not metaphorically—actually eaten. “Mom, you saw him chewing paper last week,” they argued, eyes wide with sincerity. I almost bought it, Diary. Almost.
Or that time my partner tried to help with the laundry and accidentally dyed all the whites pink. For a week, we looked like a family of flamingos. I was annoyed, sure, but every time I opened the closet, I couldn’t help but laugh.
I guess what I’m saying is, life might be a grind, but it’s my grind. And somewhere between the grocery store chaos and the endless to-do lists, there’s a rhythm to it. A messy, imperfect rhythm that somehow keeps everything moving forward.
Would I trade it for anything else? Some days, yes. Other days, absolutely not.
So, dear Diary, here’s to another day in the grind. May tomorrow’s coffee be strong, the school run uneventful, and the grocery lines short. And if not—well, at least I’ll have something to write about.
Yours,
The Perpetual Juggler of Chaos
- Writer
