I’ve become a prisoner in my own home

I hate the ice cream truck.

I know. I’m sorry.

You’re probably thinking, How could anyone hate the ice cream truck? It’s nostalgic. It’s spontaneous. It’s the sound of summer rolling slowly down your street.

Maybe… but if you’re a parent, it’s the biggest scam out there.

We were having one of those pleasant summer afternoons at the park. Everyone was playing together nicely, no one was whining about the heat, and the kids and I had just finished our healthy snack of cheese, crackers and fresh raspberries. I had energy in the tank and felt great about myself because I’d already prepped dinner, so it would be an easy 10 minutes of cooking when we got home.

Badabing, badaboo.

And then:

Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do…

I heard the music and panic sank in. I didn’t know “Pop Goes the Weasel” could make me feel so uneasy, but there I stood, brushing sand off my butt and anxiously telling my children we needed to go, like an apocalypse of zombies was about to invade the park.

Before I could even step out of the sandbox, there it was: the pink-and-blue child-luring vehicle, conveniently parked right by the playground entrance.

“ICE CREAM!!!!” my kids yelled, pointing to the truck.

Without looking up, I started shoving our empty snack containers and water bottles into the bag.

“We just had a snack,” I said, with reason.

Other kids started running toward the truck.

“Please, Mum! Those kids are getting ice cream.”

Then the ice cream truck driver stuck his head out the window and started squirting bubbles with a bubble machine.

“Mom! He has bubbles too!”

Oh, this guy is good.

He’s offering the two most appealing things to children: ice cream and bubbles.

“It’s almost dinner time and we have freezies at home,” I said with conviction.

But the kids couldn’t hear me and my practical justifications. They were locked onto the other children walking past them proudly licking their Push Pops and Fudgsicles, like they were in some kind of cold-treats parade. We neared the gate and a little girl walked past carrying a SpongeBob-shaped ice cream bar.

They don’t even know who SpongeBob is, but they couldn’t hold back any longer.

My kids turned to me, eyes pleading. My two-year-old son quietly pouted, “Mummy Tuck.” For whatever reason, he’s always referred to “ice cream” as “Mummy.” I like to think he loves me so much that he’s decided we’re the same thing.

I let out a huge sigh and told myself to loosen up.

“Okay. We’ll get ice cream.”

Immediate cheers, hugs and declarations of love.

The wildly enthusiastic dude blew some bubbles at my kids and said, “Welcome to the party, Mum!”

In my mind, I’m thinking, Shut up, hipster.

I would also be happy as hell if I were about to make $9 off something I could get for $1.25 at home.

That’s right. I walked away having paid twenty-seven dollars for three grocery-store ice creams.

And then the tablet asks if you want to leave a tip.

A tip.

For what?

Massive inflation, thin balls of liquid, and a creepy smile from Mr. Rip-Off?

Not only that, he made sure I got one of his punch cards, which after 10 punches you’d think might earn you a free commercial grade ice cream. Oh no. I just earn the chance for my completed card to go into a draw to possibly win a “cool prize.”

Yes, come spend approximately $27 nine more times — which, if you’re wondering, is close to $250 — for a chance to win what? A stuffed animal?

Unless it’s stuffed with cash, I don’t ever want to see you again.

But unfortunately, that’s not what happened.

Two days later, we’re in our condo. We live on the third floor, street-facing, in a quiet neighborhood. I was washing dishes in the kitchen while the kids were doing their respective activities when I heard it.

Do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do-do…

My kitchen window was open, so I immediately closed it. Then, as calmly and quickly as I could, I walked into the living room and shut the balcony sliding door before going into each bedroom and closing the windows.

My daughter looked up from her tea party and asked why I was doing that.

“There’s going to be some loud construction sounds starting,” I told her.

She returned to her tea party, completely unfazed.

Once all the windows were shut, you could just barely hear the truck.

Close one.

But then the truck circled back.

And he very clearly turned up the volume.

“Oh, so we’re doing this.”

At this point, I’m beginning to wonder if this is personal. Does he remember us? Did those Drumsticks have trackers in them? Did he see me at the park and think, That woman looks like she’ll cave again.

Because apparently he knows where I live and I now live in constant fear.

I don’t mind spending money on good ice cream. But this guy is ripping people off by pairing it with sentimentality and bubbles.

And that’s just cheap.

I’m not sure how I’m going to survive the rest of summer without becoming a prisoner in my own home, but I’m going to start by pretending I can’t hear the music.

You Know You’re a Parent When… the Ice Cream Truck Becomes the Enemy was originally published in The Parenting Portal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

The best co-parent I’ve ever had was made of felt

Life before Jesse was bleak.

I’d ask my kids to put their shoes on.

“No!”

I’d ask them to brush their teeth.

“I don’t want to!”

Sometimes they’d remove all of their clothes just to make it abundantly clear they had other plans.

Then Jesse entered our lives.

He wasn’t purchased or recommended. He came free inside a potty-training kit from the library.

Tucked between a few picture books about the extraordinary benefits of wearing undies was an androgynous-looking hand puppet with big eyes and the confidence of someone who’s never paid a mortgage.

For a few days, Jesse sat forgotten in the box.

Then one afternoon, after my latest request had been dismissed — like one of those “You left something in your cart” emails — I shoved my hand inside and gave him a voice.

“Hi, I’m Jesse!”

The transformation was immediate.

My children, who moments earlier had ignored me completely, spun around faster than they do when they hear the ice cream truck.

Jesse asked if they’d like to put their shoes on.

“Okay!”

Jesse wondered whether it might be fun to brush their teeth.

“We LOVE brushing our teeth! Me first!”

Excuse me?

I’d been making these exact requests for months. Every suggestion from me was met with excuses about tired legs or someone dramatically collapsing face-first onto the floor.

Apparently all I needed was a felt puppet in an orange t-shirt.

Each morning my children burst out of their bedroom yelling, “Where’s Jesse?”

Not, “Good morning, Mum.”

Just a frantic search for the tiny polyester authority figure who now runs the household.

Once he’s located, they wait patiently for instructions from their new leader.

“Jesse, want to help me pick out my clothes?”

“You bet I do!” he says with relentless optimism.

“Jesse, do you want to play with me?”

“Sure!” he squeaks enthusiastically.

While Jesse attends an elaborate tea party and supervises the construction of a Duplo tower, I quietly unload the dishwasher, make breakfast, drink an actual hot cup of tea, and scroll the headlines.

It turns out I didn’t need better parenting strategies.

I just needed to hire better talent.

The last six weeks with Jesse have been magical.

My children get dressed without a single whine.

I have time to pee, wash my face, and make the bed before anyone starts asking, “How much longer is breakfast going to take?”

Instead of being catapulted straight into sibling bickering and a barrage of demands, I ease into my morning. I drink a full glass of water. I crack open the kitchen window and listen to the birds singing.

I forgot this level of peace was possible.

Then yesterday, everything came crashing down.

Halfway through my uninterrupted cup of chai, I noticed an email from the library.

Someone else had placed a hold on the potty-training kit.

It was due back in three days.

I felt my stomach drop.

Life without Jesse?

I wasn’t ready.

I immediately began troubleshooting.

Could I renew it?

No. I’d already renewed it once — the maximum allowed.

Could I return the kit… without Jesse?

Technically, yes.

There was also a tiger puppet in the box. We haven’t touched him once. Surely the next family doesn’t need two puppets. Maybe the tiger could fill in. Kids like animals.

Jesse has been doing so much heavy lifting.

He’s earned his freedom.

He’s not a government-funded employee.

He’s family.

A competent co-parent.

What if I just delayed returning the box?

Overdue library fines can’t be that expensive.

…Okay, maybe they can be.

Sigh.

The truth is, Jesse rescued me.

Perhaps it’s time to let him move on and help another struggling family. Another parent who doesn’t mind multitasking — talking on behalf of a puppet while sweeping the kitchen floor and folding laundry.

Come to think of it, he also got dropped in the toilet… twice.

Thankfully, post-flush.

Godspeed, my friend.

This isn’t goodbye.

It’s “see you at the library in three weeks."

My Kids Won’t Listen to Anything I Say, So I Speak to Them Through a Puppet was originally published in Frazzled on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’d sit on this towel if you want your pants to stay white

“Oh, you need a ride home?”

Sure. I’d be happy to.

It’s completely out of my way, my kids treated sleep like an optional activity last night, and this adds another 34 minutes to my commute — but what’s another half hour for a colleague I barely talk to?

Yep, this is my Dodge Caravan.

The passenger door doesn’t open, so you’ll have to use the sliding door.

No, the other one.

Perfect. Just climb over the car seat. You can brush those raisins onto the floor.

It’s not like they rot or anything.

Oh, sorry. The door’s not automatic.

It also takes a bit of commitment to close. Give it one firm, steady pull along the track.

Harder.

There you go.

I think it’s latched. I usually don’t know for sure until we’re driving and I hear the gentle whistle of the air coming through the gap.

Would you like me to move the jackets, stuffed giraffe, library books, and beach blanket so you have somewhere to sit?

No, no. I’ll do it. It’s pouring rain, and I’d hate for you to chip that fresh manicure.

What kind of music do you like?

EDM? I like them too.

Unfortunately, the van only plays Let It Go or Baby Shark. The other songs on the CD are all scratched.

Your mum still has a few CD’s lying around?

That’s cool.

Yeah, I don’t know why they call it a minivan either. You’re right — it’s definitely not mini.

Unlike your 2026 Mini Cooper.

Sorry again to hear that it’s stuck in the shop for its $350 detailing.

That sounds incredibly frustrating.

Personally, I prefer the gas station detailing package.

After I fill up, I pull around to the sketchy part in the back and, for two dollars, I get three minutes with a vacuum that has roughly the suction power of an asthmatic hamster.

It’s amazing what you can accomplish when you only focus on the parts that are visible.

Oh, you have a dog?

A Pomeranian?

Cute.

He had a rough day at the vet?

I’m glad he’s doing better.

Sorry, I missed the part where you said you took three days off work for emotional support.

…

Crystals?

Interesting.

I’ll have to remember that the next time one of my kids licks the grocery cart.

…

How much further?

Oh…

No, the van doesn’t connect to Google Maps. I thought you were directing me.

No problem.

I’ll just pull over and call my husband to let him know I’m going to be another forty minutes.

He can pick up the kids, make dinner, and supervise bath time.

No rush.

Offering Your Child-Free Co-Worker a Ride Home was originally published in Frazzled on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

Every night, as I corral the kids into bed, I look up at the gap in the trim around their bedroom door. It’s been there for four years.

My husband renovated our condo in the winter of 2022, a few months after our daughter was born. A generous friend with a spacious house let us stay there while he ripped out the old floors and installed new ones.

“It’ll take a week,” he said.

Which, as anyone who’s ever renovated anything knows, is less of a timeline and more of a hope than a plan.

Nine days later, on Christmas Eve, we moved back home. The floors were finished, most of the trim was installed, and only a few odds and ends remained. The bedroom doorway was one of them.

At first, we didn’t worry about it. We’d finish it next weekend. Then next month. Then, apparently, sometime during our children’s adolescence.

A few months ago, I decided enough was enough. We stopped at Home Depot after our Saturday morning swim to finally buy the missing piece.

Did we measure the doorway before leaving?

Of course not.

My husband confidently eyeballed it.

The trim was too short.

So now we’re still missing the trim, but we own a perfectly good piece that’s about one inch too short.

I can’t even blame him. We all have those projects.

Last March, I bought an online will package because it seemed like the responsible adult thing to do. The website promised it would be “fast” and “easy.” It should take about an hour to complete.

That was over a year ago.

Apparently, “fast and easy” is marketing language for people without children.

Every January, I make a photo book of the previous year because I’m one of those people who still loves flipping through actual pages instead of endlessly scrolling my camera roll. Usually it’s finished by the end of January.

It’s now halfway through July.

I’m almost done.

Almost.

The funny thing about parenting is that simply accomplishing the basics feels like winning: cooking meals, doing laundry, finding tiny shoes, brushing tiny teeth, loading and unloading the dishwasher, and making sure everyone stays alive.

By the time all that’s done, the thought of tackling a “bonus” task feels almost offensive. Like, I haven’t sat down or even had a glass of water in five hours, and somehow I’m supposed to muster up the motivation to vacuum the car?

When I finally get ten uninterrupted minutes, I don’t want to clean behind the oven or finish a will. I want to lie flat on the couch and watch an unaired Shark Tank pitch on my phone. Or stand in the corner of my closet and eat my secret chocolate that I don’t share with anyone.

The jobs themselves often aren’t even that hard. It’s finding the energy after spending the day answering questions like why car wheels turn, wiping tiny bums, and narrowly avoiding a slip on a Magna-Tile.

And none of those unfinished jobs feel important enough to sacrifice sleep for — especially after years of interrupted nights. Now that our kids have finally started sleeping past 6:00 a.m., protecting those extra precious minutes somehow feels far more urgent than organizing a box of charging cables or reading the flyer about our city’s new bylaws.

It also doesn’t help that I’m choosing between a hard-earned moment to myself and a task I’ve been avoiding for months. My to-do list isn’t exactly tempting. It never says, Spend three blissful hours at the spa. It says things like, Go through the kids’ drawers and sort out everything they’ve outgrown. Those drawers don’t seem nearly as pressing once I’m lying horizontal.

Maybe one day those two pieces of trim will finally meet.

Maybe our wills will get signed.

Maybe I’ll finally organize those charging cables.

But if my kids ask me to come inside their blanket fort, or I get 20 minutes to myself to eat chips while scrolling the news, then my to-do list can stay older than my toddler for one more day.

This is part of my “You Know You’re a Parent When…” series. Read more ridiculous stories here.

You Know You’re a Parent When… Your To-Do List Is Older Than Your Toddler was originally published in The Parenting Portal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I recently started a new diet. It’s called “Eat Like a Seagull.”

The premise is simple: don’t bother making yourself lunch. Instead, wait until your children abandon theirs.

Those leftovers end up on what I call the Dump Dish — a plate reserved for food that’s still technically edible but has been emotionally rejected by a toddler.

The Dump Dish is no different than those companies that take the imperfect yams or strawberries, bag’em and say “buy us imperfect food, we’re still yummy”. Sort of. I guess the standards are a little lower because there is a chance the food I dump on my dish might have been sneezed on, but you get the idea. It still has potential!

Things you might find on my Dump Dish — or, as the French definitely wouldn’t call it, mon éclectique charcuterie board… A half-eaten boiled egg. A bagel with the cream cheese partially licked off. A few bruised blueberries rescued from beneath their chair.

Listen, we’re all aware that the cost of food is somehow on par with gold’s spot price. I literally get choked up when I find an unwrapped Babybel cheese lounging around untouched in the Lego bin. So I’ve appointed myself the family’s official Human Compost Bin, ensuring nothing remotely edible goes to waste.

But, before you peg me as a total raccoon, I do have some standards when it comes to what qualifies as an “acceptable find” versus an “I would never.”

• An abandoned cup of partially eaten applesauce? Acceptable.
• Gyoza dumplings where the meat has been sucked out, leaving only the translucent, limp encasement? Real compost bin. Okay, okay, this one depends. I mean, if the encasement is still a little warm, I’d probably eat it.
• Half a pancake completely smothered in syrup and butter? Acceptable.
• A suspiciously wet chicken nugget? Straight to the real compost bin.

What surprises me most is my growing tolerance for completely opposing flavours. The other day, I found myself standing at the kitchen counter eating spoonfuls of sauerkraut, followed by apple slices dipped in peanut butter, before polishing things off with a few bites of cold salmon. An hour later I chased it with a few swigs of Pepto-Bismol just to settle whatever incident was starting to unfold inside my belly.

I think the real reason I’ve embraced this lifestyle is because I’m still bitter I never applied for Fear Factor and want to keep myself “in shape” in case it ever gets revived. Joe Rogan, if you’re reading this, I’d like to pitch a Parenting Edition.

Beyond the immense amounts of money I’m “saving”, I also save time. Why make lunch when I can simply wait to see what gets rejected? I’m basically one of those harbour seals hanging around the fish shops, waiting for someone to toss out the scraps. Only my fish shop is my kitchen.

Now that I think of it, I wonder if this could be marketed as some kind of money/ time saving life hack.

Tired of making yourself lunch?

Have a few kids.

Cook them delicious meals and enjoy whatever they reject.

Today’s menu could include:

• Three bites of grilled cheese
• Half a banana
• A spoonful of yogurt with macaroni mixed in
• One untouched grape, harvested from beneath the couch

No meal prep required.

So, what do you say?

Ready to save money, expand your culinary horizons, and discover what it’s truly like to eat like a seagull?

I Started a New Diet. It’s Called “Eat Like a Seagull.” was originally published in The Parenting Portal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I’m really into my Mommy Bootcamp class right now.

Not because my arms are looking more toned or because my cellulite has magically vanished. Cellulite? Vanish?! I’ve successfully created two humans from scratch, but apparently I’m no David Copperfield when it comes to lumpy flesh.

No, I’m there for the oversharing. The delicious TMI details women feel compelled to divulge in order to survive a 55 minute workout class.

It would be way more convenient for me to work out at the gym than on uneven ground at a public park. But apparently kids don’t count as personal trainers. I’ll risk a rolled ankle — or unrolling my mat in dog shit — for Laura’s severe butt acne updates and Joan’s ongoing struggle to channel inner peace toward her spicy sister-in-law, Kyla.

Today’s discussion topic was body hair and shaving. That’s right: ten mommies doing alternating reverse lunges while taking turns testifying about their grooming fiascos.

The conversation kicked off with a few women sharing how they’d dealt with the issue by getting laser hair removal. Two unlucky souls had the treatment before kids, only to watch the hair return like spiky crabgrass sometime around the second trimester. Apparently, hormonal surges can stimulate new growth in treated areas. Translation: if you’re planning on having kids (or more kids), maybe hold off on permanently evicting your pubic hair.

Gina, who has no problem sharing intimate details at full volume in a public park, decided to experiment with Nair on her inner thighs. Due to the close proximity of neighboring regions, she accidentally subjected her labia to a beauty treatment from hell.

“Whatever I did, it fucking hurt.”

Personally, I haven’t used Nair since high school and was genuinely surprised to learn it’s still very much on the market — and apparently remains a top choice for people who wish to remove hair quickly and risk not wearing underwear or pants for a few days.

Outsiders walking past probably imagined us mamas were discussing nutrition, fitness goals, and personal growth.

Meanwhile, our babies were sitting in the middle of the circle, innocently chewing on Sophie the Giraffe while we did burpees and debated bikini lines, ingrown hairs, and whether Gina’s traumatized labia warranted a medical consult.

Honestly, I’m surprised razor companies haven’t realized Mommy Bootcamp is just an unpaid focus group.

By the end of the “workout,” sweaty mommies were questioning why we put ourselves through any of this. Is it really that bad to have a few stragglers peeking out of the bikini line? Is there some elite unit of beach police patrolling the shoreline with binoculars, making sure Sasquatch stays out of sight?

Because from where we were sitting, it was starting to feel less like a problem and more like a shitty part-time job that pays in razor burn. Especially when several women admitted their husbands do absolutely zero grooming on their end.

I believe Gina was the one who compared her husband’s junk to a badger.

“Or at least that’s what I think he’s going for.”

I Joined Mommy Bootcamp for the Workout. I Stayed for the Pubic Hair Stories. was originally published in The Haven on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

There was a time in my life when I owned white shirts. Not one white shirt — several. Crisp, clean white shirts in a variety of styles and fabrics. I wore them confidently and without fear.

Clearly, this was before children.

Parents’ lives are a constant discussion of before and afters. Before kids, I chose clothes based on colour, fit, and style. After kids, I choose clothes because they’re machine washable.

In fact, I have nothing in common with anything that says “dry clean only.” Those aren’t clothing instructions anymore; they’re warnings.

These days, I’ve come to accept that anything I wear is essentially a sacrifice to the Parenting Gods. Every morning I stand in front of my closet asking myself the same question:

How upset will I be when this gets ruined?

Because it isn’t a matter of if.

It’s a matter of when.

And I’m genuinely curious — at what age can you reasonably expect to make it through an entire day without finding yogurt, toothpaste, peanut butter, or an unidentified sticky substance on your clothing?

I wouldn’t say I was a fashionista before kids. I wasn’t someone who spent a long time doing my hair or carefully curating outfits. But I enjoyed putting on a dainty blouse I found at a consignment shop, adding a few curls to my hair, and feeling like I’d made an effort.

Then I got pregnant and suddenly everything I owned contained a gigantic elastic band because apparently not even the designers of maternity clothes know how big you’re going to get.

Then the baby arrives.

And if your children are anything like my son, congratulations — you are now a human spit-up rag.

After he was born, my husband and I decided we were going to be as comfortable as possible while trying to survive life with two under two. We each bought two premium Lululemon sweatsuits and practically lived in them.

Six months later, our sweaters looked like Jackson Pollock’s new streetwear collection.

I had no idea spit-up could stain so badly. Thankfully, one of my sweatsuits was heather grey, which hid most of the damage. My husband’s mint green one, however, displayed every ounce of bodily fluid. At one point, I almost wanted to squirt milk on his pants just so it looked like an ensemble.

For those first few years, I completely forgot the words fashion and style.

Conversations about coordinating handbags and accessories were replaced with much more pressing concerns:

Which diaper bag is waterproof?

How many snacks can it hold?

Can I fit my entire life inside it?

Only now that my son is two and my daughter is almost four do I find myself with the occasional spare fifteen minutes in the morning. Enough time to do a little more than go pee, splash water on my face, and brush my teeth.

Some mornings I even manage to get dressed, put on a little makeup, and straighten my hair.

I feel like Beyoncé on those days.

Not because I suddenly look glamorous. Mostly because I look a little less like I just got off a roller coaster and a little more like a functioning adult. More importantly, it feels good to do something for myself again.

What I’m still struggling with, however, is the clothing part.

I’m not Anna Wintour setting the stage for this season’s fashion trends, and I honestly couldn’t care less whether skinny jeans are in or out. I just want to look half decent. The problem is that I’m still in the phase of parenting where practicality is king.

And by practical, I mean clothing that can survive whatever my kids have been touching.

Dark colours? Excellent.

100% cotton? Even better.

Anything hand wash only? Get out of my house.

Every day feels like a game show where children compete to see how many mysterious residues they can transfer onto your body before noon.

Tomato Sauce.

Dirt.

Blueberry smoothie.

Old gum they found on the ground.

The possibilities are endless.

The other day I discovered the perfect red handprint on my thigh. I didn’t recall providing strawberries for snack time or red markers for colouring, but there it was.

At this point, I don’t even ask questions anymore.

I’ve accepted that everything I wear is temporary.

So yes, I still enjoy putting on a nice top when I get the chance. I still appreciate a good pair of jeans. And every now and then I even straighten my hair.

But until someone can guarantee me a full day without mystery stains, sticky fingers, surprise hugs, or lap-spills, I’ll continue dressing accordingly.

And by accordingly, I mean whatever I’m least emotionally attached to.

This is part of my “You Know You’re a Parent When…” series. Read more ridiculous stories here.

You Know You’re a Parent When… Your Clothes Have No Chance was originally published in The Parenting Portal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

I asked for sixty seconds. My kids heard “create an emergency.”

I just needed a minute.

One minute to let the Advil kick in.

One minute to lie down, curled up with period cramps.

Instead, I got cold bacon and a poop-covered preschooler.

I don’t know how many times I ask for “a minute” in a day. Probably too many.

I’m not sure why I haven’t stopped asking. It’s not like I ever get the minute I need to do the thing I need to do.

I’ve long since accepted that I’ll never pee alone. But still, I yell, “Just a minute!” from behind the bathroom door, only to watch my daughter walk in and ask if she can watch me scroll YouTube videos.

Or I’ll be on the phone with my insurance broker trying to figure out what my policy actually covers.

“Just a minute, guys.”

Instead, both kids latch onto my legs and demand to be dragged around the house while I search for my wallet and read out my credit card number.

The other day, I was in the middle of making breakfast when the period cramps started.

The bacon was sizzling. Water was boiling. I was trying to stay upright while answering my daughter’s request for a Tallulah story and simultaneously shooing my son away from the snack cupboard.

I struggled to get past the child lock on the Advil bottle, which suddenly seemed to require a lot more focus and strength than usual. I took the extra-strength version because, frankly, regular-strength period medication feels more like a bad joke than a treatment.

“Mum, I need a story. I said please.”

I’ve been on my daughter about manners lately, so I felt a certain obligation to reward the effort. For months now, I’ve been dictating Tallulah stories on demand. Every single one features a little girl named Tallulah and her ridiculous little brother, Acorn. Both characters bear a suspicious resemblance to my children.

“I just need a minute,” I said, gripping my stomach.

The phrase accomplished exactly what it always accomplishes: absolutely nothing.

I turned off the bacon, pushed the pan off the burner, stumbled to my bedroom, and collapsed onto the bed. I curled into the semi-comforting fetal position and waited for the capsule to make its way into my system.

Ten seconds later, my daughter burst through the door.

“Mummy! I wiped my bum by myself!”

“Okay, great,” I mumbled into the pillow.

Then my brain caught up.

My daughter isn’t quite four. She still gets assistance in the bum-wiping department. She had never successfully completed this task on her own.

I shot upright.

There she stood, grinning from ear to ear, proudly displaying the sleeve she’d apparently used for the job.

It was covered in poop.

“Freeze!” I yelled.

Unfortunately, “freeze” sounds a lot like the start of a game when you’re three years old.

Before I could reach her, she squealed, spun around, and sprinted out of the room with a bottom and back smeared with poop.

I jumped out of bed and threw myself toward the door only to be confronted by my son seeking help to peel his “orge”.

“Just a second Buddy.”

I must be an optimist since now I’m asking for seconds, when I’ve yet to get a minute on the record.

Advil still hadn’t kicked in and my cramps were reaching turbo mode.

For a brief moment, I considered surrendering the house and fulfilling my dream of being Diane Lane in Under the Tuscan Sun — but not enough to risk dookie on the couch.

As I chased her around the kitchen table, I found myself longing for the simpler problem of crippling period cramps. Moments earlier, that had been my biggest concern. Now I was trying to catch a preschooler while avoiding contact with her right arm and most of her backside.

Just then, my son opened the freezer drawer, pulled out a chilled teething toy, and handed it to his sister.

“Thanks, Buddy,” she said.

As she paused to accept it, I seized my opportunity and wrapped her in a towel.

By the time I finished cleaning her up, the bacon was cold, my son had peeled three oranges, and the Advil had finally started doing its job.

I sat down at the kitchen table, took a deep breath, and sipped my cold tea, leaves and all.

Finally.

My minute.

“Mum?”

I closed my eyes.

So close.

This is part of my “You Know You’re a Parent When…” series. Read more ridiculous stories here.

You Know You’re a Parent When… You Just Need a Minute was originally published in The Parenting Portal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.

From sleeping in shifts to redesigning entire room configurations, we’ve done it all in pursuit of sleep

Before I became a parent, I was very particular about my sleep routine. No screens an hour before bed. Blackout curtains. Seasonal duvets. A cool room. I even went for a pillow assessment to ensure I had the correct pillow for the way I slept.

There was a system. A standard.

Since having kids, I’ve slept upright with a baby on my chest, on a bed in disguise (aka three couch cushions loosely held together by a fitted sheet), on a juice-crusted rug that somehow smells both sour and earthy, and folded into a toddler bed like a piece of origami.

Apparently, standards have changed.

So long as my kids stay asleep, the thread count really doesn’t matter as much.

Most parents have different opinions on feeding, discipline, screen time, and schooling, but almost all of us can agree on one thing: we’ll sleep anywhere and contort ourselves into any position if it keeps a child asleep or buys us a few extra minutes of rest.

Sleeping in weird places is only part of the story. The real madness begins when you start redesigning your entire home around sleep.

In pursuit of shut-eye, we’ve made some questionable decisions over the years.

I can’t tell you how many times we’ve rearranged, repurposed, sold, purchased, borrowed, or dragged furniture around our condo in hopes of catching a few extra winks. Looking back, I wish we’d installed a time-lapse camera. Our bedroom went through more redesigns in four years than most restaurants in New York City. Seriously, one of the top five things on my gratitude list is the creation of Facebook Marketplace.

We borrowed a bassinet, but it was too high. We clamped our daughter’s crib to our bed so we could reach over and soothe her without fully waking up. We purchased a Snoo — the outrageously expensive robot bed that’s supposedly the answer to exhausted parents’ prayers — only to discover our son had absolutely no interest in being wrapped like a burrito, repeatedly rocked, and hissed at with white noise. In hindsight, I can see why he wasn’t sold on the concept.

At some point last year, we had a call with our sleep coach to get her thoughts on our latest arrangement.

At the time, both kids were sleeping in the same room. We had a single mattress in the living room, and my husband and I took turns sleeping on it so the other person could sleep in the master bedroom and get a decent night’s rest. The person in the living room was essentially the overnight security guard.

When I explained this setup to our sleep coach — who I assume has heard every sleep-deprived parenting scheme imaginable — she paused.

“Do you think your parents would do that?” she asked.

“No,” I admitted, “but one of the kids is waking up every night!”

She thought for a moment.

“Have you considered just sleeping in the same bed?”

At the time, this struck me as a surprisingly radical suggestion. Sleeping in the same bed? No “on duty” parent? It felt reckless.

But, when you’re beyond burnout, your sense of normal shifts. Somewhere along the way, my husband and I had accepted a rotating night-watch system as a perfectly reasonable solution to interrupted sleep.

Our sleep coach’s instinct was that if we slept together, our kids would probably sleep better too.

She was right.

These days, our sleeping arrangements are considerably less complicated. The kids mostly sleep through the night. My husband and I share a bed again. The living room posting has been permanently suspended.

Or so we thought.

Last week, our son turned two and given he likes to climb, we decided to exchange his crib for a toddler bed. He’s been enjoying his unconstrained freedom, which means after we put him to bed he’s up playing with toys, running in and out of the room, or crawling all over his sleeping sister in the bed next to his. He’s also been waking around 4:23 a.m. to raid the snack cupboard.

Parenting has taught me many things, but perhaps the most important is this: no sleeping arrangement is permanent.

This is part of my “You Know You’re a Parent When…” series. Read more ridiculous stories here.

You Know You’re a Parent When You’ve Sort-Of Slept Wherever, If That Meant Your Kid Would Sleep was originally published in The Parenting Portal on Medium, where people are continuing the conversation by highlighting and responding to this story.