Motherhood: The Glamorous Life of Being Touched Constantly and Peeing with an Audience (Still.)

Let me be clear: I’ve been a mom for a hot minute now. My youngest is 8, my oldest is 23, and I’ve got four more sprinkled in between like a beautiful, chaotic trail of snack crumbs and half-finished school projects. At this point, I’m basically a motherhood Jedi — robe optional, coffee mandatory.

You’d think after two decades of parenting, I’d have it all figured out.
Spoiler alert: I don’t.

Because motherhood isn’t a “level up” kind of game. It’s more like a long-running improv show with no script and multiple costume changes, featuring surprise spills, mood swings, and someone always asking, “What’s for dinner?” even when they’re old enough to cook it themselves.

Yes, I have survived diaper days, middle school drama, teen attitudes, college applications, and that mysterious phase where no one in the house liked the same dinner two nights in a row. And now? Now I get parenting questions like:

• “Can I borrow the car?”
• “Can you watch the kids?” (Yes, my kids have kids. I’m in the bonus round.)
• And my personal favorite: “Can I move back in for a bit?”

Some things never change, though.

• I still can’t pee in peace. I’ve got a cat, a child, and occasionally an adult-sized human knocking on the door because suddenly everything is urgent.
• I still have to mediate debates over who left dishes in the sink. The suspects are now legally adults. The dishes are still crusty.
• I still eat the cold fries no one wanted because I’m too tired to make my own plate.
• And I still keep a stash of snacks in my room like a squirrel with trust issues.

But listen, this crew I’ve raised? They’re wild, wonderful, messy miracles. Every age and stage has brought its own brand of madness and magic. Some days I feel like a referee. Some days I feel like a life coach. And occasionally I feel like a goddess when everyone is fed, mostly clean, and no one has called me from the ER.

If you’re in the thick of it — whether you’ve got littles underfoot or bigs raiding your fridge — I see you. You’re doing holy work. You’re raising humans and occasionally losing your mind, and that’s what motherhood is: a rollercoaster you didn’t really sign up for but now you’re in charge of snacks and emergency tissues.

And no, I wouldn’t trade it. But I would like a nap.