Come sit with me and listen to my heart

I don’t even know what’s wrong with me right now. I should feel happy. I should feel so damn happy. I have a beautiful baby. I have the sweetest bunny who makes me laugh every single day. I have a camper that I love, a little home that feels like something I built with my own hands. I’ve got things people dream about. I’ve got peace — or at least I should.

But I don’t feel it.

I just feel… numb.

And it’s the weirdest thing because I know I’m lucky. I know I’m blessed. I know I have it good compared to how things used to be. A year ago, I was drowning in chaos, crying every day, questioning if I even wanted to keep going. Now? I have everything I prayed for — and somehow, it’s like my brain didn’t get the memo.

I wake up and take care of my baby, feed the bunny, clean the camper, drink my coffee, and it’s all fine. But that’s the problem. It’s just fine. No spark. No excitement. No fire. Just going through motions, and it feels like I’m living in grayscale instead of color.

I keep thinking maybe it’s my meds. Maybe they’re off. Maybe I’m too medicated, or not medicated enough, or maybe my bipolar disorder is just playing its stupid mind games again. You know that feeling where you’re watching yourself from outside your own body? Like you’re standing in the corner of your own life, watching everyone else smile and laugh and feel, while you’re just... stuck? That’s where I’m at.

And the worst part is that I can’t even tell anyone without sounding ungrateful. Like, how do you say, “Hey, I have everything I wanted, but I still feel like garbage”? People would think I’m insane or spoiled or unappreciative. But it’s not that. I am grateful. I look at my baby and I want to cry because he’s the most perfect little human I’ve ever known. I look at my bunny and feel this soft love bubble up because she’s such a ridiculous little creature. I look at my camper and remember all the steps it took to get here. I’m grateful as hell.

But I also feel like I’m trapped inside a fog that I can’t climb out of.

It’s like when you’re watching TV on a channel that’s just a little bit static — you can see the picture, but it’s blurry, and the sound keeps cutting in and out. That’s my brain right now. Blurry and cutting out.

I’ve been trying to figure out why. Is it exhaustion? Probably. Is it hormones? Maybe. Is it the bipolar? Almost definitely. But part of me wonders if this is just… adulthood. Like maybe we get so used to chasing stability that when we finally have it, we don’t know what to do with it. I’ve spent so long surviving that I don’t know how to just be.

It’s easy to feel emotions when your life is on fire. You cry, you scream, you fight, you laugh because it’s all chaos. But what do you do when things calm down and you’re left with silence? When the adrenaline is gone and now you’re just here, existing, with no crisis to distract you from your brain?

That’s when the numbness sneaks in.

And I hate it. I hate feeling this way. I hate that I can’t pinpoint it. I hate that I can’t just snap out of it. I hate that I’m sitting here, surrounded by everything I ever said I wanted, and my body’s like, “nah, let’s just not feel anything today.”

I even tried the “self-care” stuff everyone preaches. Journaling, baths, walks, stretching, cleaning, deep breathing, gratitude lists. And yeah, they help for like, five minutes. But then I go right back to feeling hollow. It’s like putting a Band-Aid on a bruise. It doesn’t fix it — it just hides it for a minute.

Sometimes I wish I could open my brain up like a computer and just reset it. Just hit “clear cache,” delete the emotional glitches, reboot and start over fresh.

Because it’s frustrating to love your life and still not love living it.

And I don’t want to sound like I’m in some dark, hopeless place — I’m not. It’s not like that. I don’t want to die; I just want to feel alive again. I want to wake up and feel excited. I want to laugh and actually feel it in my chest, not just make the sound because I know I’m supposed to. I want to look around and feel joy instead of just awareness of it.

It’s like knowing the words to a song but forgetting the melody.

And I’m trying to be patient with myself. I keep reminding myself that healing isn’t linear, and that sometimes feeling nothing is just your brain’s way of protecting you from everything. I’ve been through so much these past few years — maybe this is just the emotional hangover. Maybe my brain is catching its breath.

But damn, it’s annoying. I want to feel the sunshine again, not just see it.

Maybe it’s the meds, and maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just part of being human. Maybe it’s okay to feel like this sometimes. Maybe I don’t need to fix it right away. Maybe this is just the quiet before I find myself again.

Either way, I’m not going to stop living. I’ll still make my coffee, feed the bunny, love my baby, laugh with my man, and clean the camper. I’ll still show up even if my feelings don’t. Because that’s the thing about life — you keep showing up until it feels like yours again.

And I know it will. Eventually, it always does.

But right now?

Right now I just feel f***in numb.

Good morning, friends! It’s currently way too early to be functioning, but here we are. I’ve been up since 1 a.m. — yep, one in the morning. My son decided that was the perfect time to wake me up, and of course, once I was up, there was no going back to sleep. So I did what any slightly sleep-deprived mom would do at 1 a.m. — I rolled out my mat and got my Pilates workout in. Honestly, not mad about it. Starting the day moving made me feel like I had my life together… even if my hair says otherwise.

Now, here’s the exciting part — today is the day I finally get my new bunny! I’ve been preparing for him all week, and I pick him up at noon. I’m so excited I can hardly sit still. I’ve got his little setup ready, all cozy and cute. The idea of bringing home another bunny friend just makes me so happy — I can’t wait to see how Queen Quinthrith reacts to him. (I’m sure she’ll have some opinions.)

Right now, though, I’m sitting outside the post office waiting for it to open because I have a few Mercari packages to pick up. The baby is asleep in the backseat, all bundled up, and I’m just sitting here sipping my lukewarm coffee and trying to enjoy the quiet while it lasts. There’s something weirdly peaceful about these early morning errands — like the world hasn’t fully woken up yet, and it’s just me, the cold, and a little bit of excitement buzzing in my chest.

Speaking of cold — we ran out of propane last night. Of course, on this day of all days, it has to be freezing. So, once the post office opens, I’ve got to make a propane run. Camper life, man. It’s glamorous until you’re brushing your teeth with your coat on.

But you know what? I’m choosing to see it as part of the adventure. Today’s going to be one of those long but good days — a mix of errands, baby naps, cold weather, and a new bunny to make it all worth it.

So yeah, good morning from me, my coffee, my half-frozen camper, my sleepy baby, and the soon-to-be newest member of the family. I can’t wait to introduce you all to him later. Stay tuned — bunny day has officially begun.

🩷 Alright, so here’s what happened — and before anyone judges me, I need you to understand something about me as a person: I don’t think things through.

❤️ So, yeah. I bought another rabbit.

💛 Now, to be fair, it sounds bad when you say it like that, but it’s not. Because technically, I already had a rabbit — Queen Quinthrith 👑 — who weighs, no exaggeration, about the same as a bowling ball with opinions. She runs this camper like it’s Buckingham Palace. And I thought, you know what this royal kingdom needs? A tiny sidekick.

💚 Enter Magnus.

💙 He’s a Holland Lop. Four pounds. Tops. That’s like… one Quinthrith thigh. This is the bunny version of putting a Chihuahua next to a Great Dane and saying, “Yeah, they’re best friends.”

💜 But I couldn’t help myself. He’s so small. And floppy. And I’m convinced he’s the missing puzzle piece to this weird little zoo I call home.

🧡 Frank — my boyfriend, my partner, my unwitting co-star in all my bad decisions — did not agree.

🧸

💛 The Great Three-Day Debate

💛 It took me three whole days to convince him. And listen — three days might not sound like a lot, but in Frank Time, that’s a psychological war.

💚 Day 1: I start light. Just a casual, “Hey babe, how cute are Holland Lops?” while scrolling on my phone. He doesn’t even look up. He just goes, “Don’t even start.” So naturally, I start.

💙 Day 2: I’m showing him pictures. Tiny bunny in a teacup. Bunny sleeping in a hand. Bunny wearing a little hat. “Look at him!” I say. “He’s so small! He wouldn’t even take up space!” Frank goes, “We live in a camper, Aimee. Everything takes up space.” I’m like, “He could fit in my hoodie pocket! You wouldn’t even notice!”

💜 Day 3: I show up ready for war. I’ve got arguments, charts, emotional manipulation, maybe divine intervention. I hit him with the PowerPoint-in-my-head special:

Pro: Quinthrith might stop eating the baseboards.

Con: None. I don’t do cons.

Pro: He’s cute and he’ll keep me from having another baby.

Pro: Happy Queen Quinthrith, happy life.

🩷 Frank sighs — the sigh — the one that means I’ve won. His shoulders drop. His eyes glaze over like a man staring into the abyss of his own fate. And he goes, “Fine. But this is the last one.”

(Okay fine, it’s the last one.)

🧸

💚 The Royal Family Expands

💚 So tomorrow, we pick up Magnus. And I’m losing my mind with excitement.

💙 Meanwhile, Queen Quinthrith has no idea her entire empire is about to get rocked. This is a bunny who acts like she pays rent. She’s got attitude. She thumps when she’s mad. She glares when she doesn’t get her way. She’s basically a toddler with fur.

💜 So I can already picture it — I walk in holding Magnus like the Lion King scene, and she’s just sitting there like,

> “Mother. You dare bring this… floppy-eared commoner into my palace?”

🧡 She’s gonna lose it. For three days, minimum. But after that? She’ll warm up. Probably teach him how to chew through something expensive. Mentor him in chaos. The usual.

🧸

💛 Frank’s Ongoing Emotional Breakdown

💛 Frank’s pretending to be annoyed, but I can already tell how this ends.

💚 This is the same man who once said, “No animals in bed,” and now sleeps with a twenty-pound rabbit curled around his feet like a weighted blanket.

💙 So yeah, right now, he’s walking around saying stuff like,

> “Do they make insurance for chewed wires?”

and

“What’s next, a hamster?”

💜 But give it a week. He’ll be in the corner baby-talking Magnus like,

> “Who’s daddy’s little man?”

And I’ll be standing there like, “Thought you didn’t want another rabbit, huh?”

🧡 That’s the cycle. I bring home chaos. He complains. Then chaos becomes his new emotional support system.

🧸

💚 My Brain Right Now

💚 My brain is just bunny static at this point.

💙 I’ve already:

– Picked out Magnus’s little name tag.

– Rearranged Quinthrith’s space so it’s like the royal nursery.

– Watched twelve YouTube videos on bonding rabbits like I’m about to host a TED Talk called “Flop-Eared Diplomacy.”

💜 I’m pacing around the camper like, “He’s gonna be so little! He’s gonna look like a dust bunny that learned taxes!”

🩷 And Frank’s just sitting there, sipping his whiskey, shaking his head, saying, “You’re insane.”

🧡 Which, yeah. I am. But at least I’m self-aware.

🧸

💛 The Future I See

💛 I know exactly how this is gonna go:

💚 Day 1: Quinthrith acts offended.

Day 2: Frank pretends he doesn’t care.

Day 3: I catch them both staring lovingly at Magnus while he chews a cord.

💙 By the end of the week, Frank’s gonna be the one reminding me to refill the hay. He’ll be whispering to Magnus like, “Don’t tell Mom, but here’s an extra treat.”

💜 And I’ll be like — “Oh, so now he’s our bunny?”

🧸

💚 The Queen’s Legacy Continues

💚 If you’ve met Quinthrith, you know she’s not a regular rabbit. She’s a menace. She’s a villain. She’s a queen.

💙 She doesn’t just chew furniture. She redecorates with passion.

💜 So Magnus is either going to be her sweet little balance… or her partner in crime. And honestly? I’m okay with either.

🩷 Because if I walk into the camper one day and find both of them sitting next to a pile of chewed-up baseboards looking proud — I’ll just sigh, grab my phone, and post about it.

🧡 That’s love. That’s chaos. That’s my life.

🧸

💛 Final Thoughts Before Pick-Up

💛 Tomorrow, we go get Magnus.

Frank will sigh.

Quinthrith will plot my death.

And I’ll be the happiest little bunny lunatic on the planet.

💚 Because life’s too short not to fill your camper with animals that destroy your stuff but fill your heart.

💙 Magnus, the royal baby Viking, is joining the family.

And I can’t wait.

🩷 (Okay fine. It’s the last one.)

🧸

So picture this: I wake up this morning to my 8-month-old beating me up.

Not metaphorically. Physically.

This kid woke up and chose violence.

Before my eyes are even open, I’m getting baby-slapped across the face like I owe him money.

And the wild part? This is just how he says “Good morning.”

Who needs an alarm clock when you have an infant who practices mixed martial arts in his sleep?

He’s grunting, kicking, drooling, yelling — basically a drunk roommate trapped in a baby’s body.

I’m like, “Sir. You have no job. No bills. What could you possibly be this mad about at 6 a.m.?”

🍭

Baby’s Mood: Whiny With a 100% Chance of Clingy

So the rest of the day goes downhill from there.

This kid has been attached to me like a Velcro backpack.

I can’t pee. I can’t blink. I can’t even think without him noticing I’m not giving him 100% attention.

I’m walking around like, “Can Mommy breathe for two seconds?”

And he’s like, “No. Absolutely not. You belong to me now.”

And don’t get me wrong, I know he’s teething. I get it.

He’s growing little teeth — that’s hard work!

But at this point, the amount of drool coming out of him could fill a kiddie pool.

I’m slipping on my own floors.

He’s chewing everything — toys, blankets, my hair, my shoulder.

He tried to chew the remote the other day.

I told him no, and he looked me dead in the eye like, “You think you run this house?”

🍭

The Dad Situation

And of course — because life has a sense of humor — his dad is working a twelve-hour shift today.

Twelve hours.

You know what that means?

I’m the sole entertainment, chef, therapist, and chew toy all day long.

Now let me tell you about his dad. My boyfriend is wonderful.

He’s supportive, sweet, brings me snacks, and makes sure I have everything I need.

He’s the type of guy who says, “Babe, take a nap. I’ve got him.”

But he’s also the type of guy who’s not here when the baby decides to perform his one-man scream concert.

So he comes home later, all cheerful, all handsome, smelling like fresh air and freedom, and goes—

“How was your day?”

Sir.

Read the room.

You just walked into The Hunger Games: Mom Edition.

🍭

My Living Room Looks Like a Baby Crime Scene

At this point in the day, my house looks like it’s been raided by tiny burglars.

There are toys everywhere.

The bunny’s judging me from across the room.

The baby’s half-naked, holding a spoon he doesn’t need, screaming for reasons even NASA can’t explain.

I tried to clean. I really did.

But it’s impossible to clean while someone is crawling behind you undoing everything you just did.

It’s like living with a chaotic little supervisor.

“Mom, I see you picked up those blocks. Let me just scatter them again for your mental health.”

🧸

Nap Time? You Mean Theoretical Nap Time

You know what’s worse than a teething baby?

A teething baby who refuses to nap.

He’ll be rubbing his eyes, yawning, literally swaying like he’s about to collapse —

and still fighting sleep like he’s training for the Baby Olympics.

I’ll rock him, sing to him, bounce him — nothing.

The second I finally get him down, he pops those eyes open like,

“Did you seriously think I was gonna let you have peace?”

And then there’s me, standing over the crib like a zombie who just lost a war.

❄️

When Dad Finally Gets Home

He walks through the door, picks up the baby, and suddenly the kid’s all smiles.

I mean, beaming.

Giggles. Laughter. Sunshine and rainbows.

Oh sure, now you’re happy.

Now that Dad’s home.

Where was this energy when I was trying to eat ramen with one hand and rock you with the other?

And of course, my boyfriend’s like, “He’s in such a good mood!”

Yeah, because you weren’t here for the purge, the tantrums, and the great bottle rebellion of noon.

🎄

But Then...

Then I see them together.

My boyfriend holding our son, the baby playing with his beard and cooing.

And even though I’m running on fumes and caffeine, my heart melts into a puddle on the floor.

That’s the thing about motherhood.

It’s 90% chaos, 9% caffeine, and 1% pure magic.

The kind of magic that makes you forget the crying, the mess, the drool, the punches — all of it —

just because your baby smiles at you.

And then, of course, he smacks you in the face again five minutes later.

🎂

The Truth

Living with an 8-month-old and his dad is like living with two versions of the same man.

One cries when he’s hungry and can’t communicate.

The other also cries when he’s hungry and can’t communicate.

But I love them both.

Because at the end of the day, even when I’m teething-baby-level exhausted,

I’ve got a partner who loves me, a baby who thinks I’m the entire world,

and a bunny who’s probably plotting to move out.

So yeah, today I survived a full-day teething meltdown and a twelve-hour shift (that I didn’t even work).

But tomorrow?

Tomorrow I’ll wake up to another round of baby wrestling, more drool, and the same chaos —

and honestly, I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

🎂🎄❄️🧸🍭

*picture is AI Edited the wall isn't THAT bad lololol

“My Bunny Thinks the Walls Are a Snack”

Okay, so apparently my bunny, Queen Quinthrith 👑, has decided that she’s above all human laws and home-decor conventions. Not only is she not potty trained (despite my very best Pinterest-mom efforts), but now she’s… eating the fucking baseboards and the carpet. Like. Ma’am. What are we doing?

And before anyone comes for me in the comments, YES — she has toys. Plural. Wooden chews, hay cubes, willow balls, literal castles made of cardboard. I’ve provided enrichment, entertainment, and emotional support. I even bought her one of those cat things with scratching posts and dangling toys — you know, thinking maybe it would distract her from her newfound passion for construction demolition.

Spoiler: it did not.

Instead, my son is the one who loves the cat toy. He’s out here jingling the little hanging balls and trying to climb it like he’s training for toddler ninja warrior, while Queen Quinthrith 👑 just sits nearby with that smug “I’m above you all” look and proceeds to gnaw the drywall. Like—why that wall? Out of the entire camper, why that one wall? I even blocked it off with baby gates, storage bins, moral support—she still finds a way. The determination of this rabbit could power a small country.

And let’s talk about the litter box situation, because apparently her training was a one-week limited-time trial. She used it for a few glorious days, I got cocky, and I told a girl I tried being friends with that I had her trained. I was so proud. “She’s basically a little lady now,” I said. Lies. All lies. Because not even a week later, she decided that the floor around the litter box was the new target zone. Like she’s aiming for it, but with artistic freedom.

So now I’m just scooping and sweeping and asking God what karmic lesson I’m supposed to be learning here. Patience? Humility? How to clean faster?

Anyway, the other day I picked her up (which she tolerated like I’d just insulted her lineage) and realized—oh. My. God. Her legs are meaty. Like, I finally understand why people used Flemish Giants for meat. She’s thick with two Cs. My girl is out here built like a linebacker, legs of pure muscle, and I’m over here begging her not to eat the drywall.

And before anyone suggests it—yes, I’ve Googled it. “Why is my rabbit eating the wall?” “Is drywall toxic to bunnies?” “How to make your rabbit stop ruining your life.” All I get are cheerful advice posts like, “Just redirect her energy!” or “Provide more chew toys!”

She doesn’t want the toys. She wants the baseboards. She wants the forbidden wall. She’s an artist of destruction and I’m just the unpaid cleaning staff.

I even read on Reddit that “bunnies will chew when bored.” Well, if she’s bored, she’s bored by choice, because this diva lives better than I do. She’s got a cozy rug, her own litter setup (that she ignores), unlimited hay, filtered water, and a fan. Meanwhile, I’m crouched on the floor whispering “please stop” like it’s a prayer.

At this point, I’ve accepted my fate: Queen Quinthrith 👑 rules the camper, I’m just her servant. I’ll probably be sitting in the middle of a hollowed-out camper one day, surrounded by shredded carpet, holding her and saying, “But she’s my baby.” Because she is. My chaotic, baseboard-munching baby.

So if anyone has any actual advice that doesn’t involve locking her in a cage for a week (because the guilt alone would eat me alive), I’m all ears. Preferably not the chewable kind.

Until then, I’ll be over here trying to convince my rabbit that drywall is not a dietary need.

🐇👶 Follow My Journey: If you liked this post, follow along for all of my camper chaos, baby giggles, bunny adventures, and stories from the road. It’s not always glamorous, but it’s always real.

Confessions of a Tired Bunny Mom: The Poop Chronicles 🐇💩

So, remember when I proudly announced that my bunny was litterbox trained? Yeah. About that.

We had a solid week — one glorious, peaceful, clean-cornered week — where she used the box like a civilized little lady. I bragged. I gloated. I even told a girl I tried being friends with, “See? She’s basically a cat now.”

And then she betrayed me.

Now, instead of in the litterbox, she prefers to go around the litterbox. Like she’s decorating it. A nice little ring of turds, a halo of defiance. I swear she looks me dead in the eye while she does it — like she’s daring me to say something.

I’ve cleaned, rearranged, added hay, changed litter brands, offered treats, begged, reasoned, prayed. Nothing. She’s got a whole system now: one poop in the box, ten around it. Like she’s saying, “See, I technically used it. Be grateful.”

Google, of course, had thoughts.

“Confine your rabbit to a cage for a week,” they said.

“She’ll learn,” they said.

Yeah, well, I can’t. The guilt alone would eat me alive. She’s a free woman. A majestic, slightly unhinged fur queen. I can’t just lock her up like some criminal because she has… creative bathroom habits.

YouTube wasn’t any better. Every “rabbit expert” sounds like they have their bunnies enrolled in private school. Meanwhile, mine’s out here treating my camper floor like an art installation called Pellets of Protest.

And yes, I’ve tried the usual tricks:

Multiple litterboxes? Check.

Same spot every time? Check.

Praise and treats for using it? Check. (She ate the treat, stared at me, and immediately pooped beside the box. Iconic.)

Moving her poops into the box so she gets the idea? Also check. I basically moonlight as a bunny janitor at this point.

But you know what? I’ve decided I’m not going to stress about it. She’s healthy, she’s happy, and she’s clearly thriving in her little poop-circle rebellion. Maybe this is just part of her personality. Some people have “Live, Laugh, Love” wall art. My bunny has “Poop, Hop, Repeat.”

If anyone out there has a magical secret for re-training a bunny without locking her in bunny jail, I’m all ears. (Well, technically, she’s all ears, but you get it.)

Until then, I’ll just be over here sweeping up pellets and pretending she’s doing it on purpose — like some avant-garde statement about freedom and domesticity. Because honestly, if I don’t laugh, I’ll cry.

So here’s to my little fluffy anarchist. The Queen of Near-Misses. The Duchess of “Close Enough.” May your aim improve someday… but until then, I’ll keep loving you — even if my floors never recover.

🐇👑💩

Follow My Journey:

Let me paint you a picture.

The man who once gave me a whole lecture — and I do mean lecture — about being responsible with gas, about how “we have a son now” and “what if you run out with him in the car?” … yeah, that man? He ran out of gas today.

And guess who had to come to the rescue?

That’s right. Me.

Now, before anyone thinks I’m mad — I’m not. Not even a little bit. I was too busy laughing. Because see, I’ve been the one in this relationship who’s notoriously bad about gas. I’m that person who sees the light come on and thinks, yeah, I’ve got at least 30 more miles. I’ve been that person with the baby in the backseat, coasting into a parking lot on a prayer and a whisper. I’ve lived dangerously.

In fact, not too long ago, I actually did run out of gas with our son in the car. It was one of those moments where you go through all the stages of regret in under five seconds. Denial, anger, bargaining, acceptance — all while sitting in the driver’s seat wondering if you can push the car with one arm while holding the baby in the other.

But you know what? The universe had my back that day. A stranger pulled up behind me, got out, and asked if I needed help. I told him I ran out of gas, embarrassed and flustered, expecting maybe a judgmental look or a “you should’ve filled up sooner.” But instead, he smiled and said, “You’re in luck — I’ve got $15 worth of gas right here.”

Fifteen whole dollars worth! In today’s economy, that’s like finding a pot of gold. I swear he must’ve been an angel in a baseball cap. I was back on the road in minutes, thanking him like he’d just performed a miracle.

Fast forward to today — and now it’s my boyfriend sitting on the side of the road, calling me for help. “Hey, babe, can you come get me? I, uh… ran out of gas.”

Oh, how the turns have tabled.

I didn’t even tease him right away. I wanted to savor the moment. I just asked calmly, “Oh? You ran out of gas? You mean the same gas you told me to always be responsible about?” He groaned. “Please don’t start.” But I had already started — I was halfway out the door, trying not to grin too hard as I grabbed my keys.

When I pulled up to him, standing there like a man defeated by his own advice, I couldn’t help but laugh. I said, “So… what would you say we learned today, class?”

He just shook his head and muttered something about karma. And yeah, maybe he’s right. Karma has a sense of humor — and today, she was on my side.

We filled up the tank, laughed about it the whole way home, and honestly, it turned into one of those small, silly memories that makes you fall a little more in love. Because sometimes it’s not about who’s right or wrong — it’s just funny how life flips the script.

So fellas, before you give your girl that “be more responsible” speech, remember — you might be the one making that “hey, babe, can you come get me?” call next.

And to my gas angel out there — if you’re reading this, I hope your tank’s always full and your heart’s even fuller.⛽🪽

You know how sometimes people invite you to something and then act like they’ve been dragged there against their will? Yeah. That was my day yesterday.

So this other mom — who I actually thought was fun, by the way — invited me to go to this big Trick-or-Treat event in town. The whole main street was blocked off, the stores had tables set up, there were decorations everywhere, kids in costumes, parents with coffee cups pretending they weren’t running on fumes — the whole fall festival vibe. It was adorable. I was excited.

I even went all out. Hank was dressed as Woody from Toy Story — tiny hat, tiny boots, tiny sheriff badge and all. The compliments were endless. People were stopping me every few steps just to say how cute he was, and honestly? They weren’t wrong. My baby was the star of the show. Sheriff Hank was out there keeping Main Street safe from sugar bandits.

And me? I decided to mix things up and go full chaotic festive energy — a red-and-white Mrs. Claus dress I found at Walmart. Yep. While everyone else was in orange and black, I said “Christmas is coming early.” I thought it was hilarious and festive, and honestly, I looked pretty cute if I do say so myself.

So there I am, jingling down the street with my little cowboy, having a great time, and this other mom — the one who invited me — is acting like she’s been sentenced to community service. The second we park, she goes, “Well, I guess we’ll trick-or-treat.”

Excuse me, what do you mean “guess”? That’s literally the whole point of the event. That’s like going to a pizza party and saying, “Well, I guess we’ll eat pizza.” Girl, what did you think we were coming here to do? Tax prep?

Anyway, we start walking down the street, and I’m smiling, laughing, chatting with people, and she’s just… sighing. Like, every five minutes, a sigh so deep I could feel it in my soul. I tried to keep things upbeat — “Oh my gosh, look how cute that little ghost is!” — and she goes, “Yeah, I guess.”

Ma’am. Please. It’s Halloween. We’re literally surrounded by candy, costumes, and toddlers high on sugar. This is supposed to be fun.

Meanwhile, Hank was in his glory. He waved at everyone, kept reaching for candy bowls, and laughed every time someone said, “Howdy, Sheriff!” I swear his little hat was slightly tilted like he knew he was charming the entire town. At one point, he tried to crawl after another kid’s light-up pumpkin bucket like it was his sworn duty. He was living.

And I was too, honestly. I love little town events like this — the kind where everyone shows up, the air smells like kettle corn, and the local businesses go all out for the kids. You can feel the community. I didn’t care that my outfit was from the Christmas aisle. I was having the best time.

But the whole night, my mom friend kept mumbling things like, “I don’t know why people think this is fun,” or “It’s just too crowded,” or “I could’ve just bought candy at Walmart.” Like ma’am… then why didn’t you?

By the end of the night, I just accepted it — some people are joy-vampires. They don’t mean to be, but they just are. And that’s fine! Not everyone likes the same stuff. But me? I’ll take the cheesy, candy-filled, Main Street Trick-or-Treat any day. Especially if it means watching my baby light up the whole block in his little Woody costume.

So yeah, she might’ve thought it was dumb, but I thought it was magic. Maybe next time I’ll just invite myself, throw on my Mrs. Claus dress again, and let Hank be the Sheriff of Fun all over town.

Because honestly? Life’s too short to “guess” if you’ll trick-or-treat. Just do it. Eat the candy. Wear the costume. Laugh at yourself. Be the mom in the Christmas dress in October.

✨ Follow My Chaos: camper life, baby giggles, bunny adventures, and all the festive fun I can find. 🎃👶💋

You know how everyone complains about night shift? The exhaustion, the upside-down sleep schedule, the meals at weird hours, the house that never quite syncs up? I get it. I used to think that, too. But lately, I’ve learned that sometimes life throws you a little curveball that turns out to be the sweetest thing. For me, that curveball came when my boyfriend got switched to night shift.

Now, don’t get me wrong—his job still keeps him busy. But the magic happens during that funny little window when he’s just come home and the world hasn’t quite woken up yet. The baby’s asleep, the bunny’s hopping around the living room like she owns the place, and there we are: two tired, happy adults stealing back a piece of the night that most people sleep through.

At first, I thought it would be hard. The schedule change, the quiet hours, the rearranged rhythm of our home. But instead, it’s been this unexpected gift. Suddenly, we have these long stretches of time to just be. No rushing. No “what time do you work tomorrow?” No clock-watching. Just us.

Sometimes we play with the bunny, who seems to think the night belongs to her. She bounces between us like a fuzzy referee, making sure neither of us forget she’s the real star of the show. Other nights, we end up curled up on the couch watching old Disney movies—the originals, the ones with that grainy film look and soundtracks that wrap around your heart like a blanket. I think the last one we watched was The Hunchback of Notre Dame. Then Mulan. Then Peter Pan. We’re basically time-traveling together through movie nights, and somehow it feels so intimate, like we’ve found a secret way to slow the world down.

He’ll pour a little whiskey into his glass, I’ll light my cigarette, and we’ll just talk. About nothing. About everything. About the baby. About the bunny. About what we’d do if we ever moved again, or the kind of house we’d build someday. There’s something about those hours—those late, sleepy, glowing hours—that make every conversation feel softer, deeper, and a little more honest.

It’s funny how happiness sneaks up on you. I didn’t expect to fall in love with night shift life, but here I am. There’s something romantic about sharing your days with someone who’s living half in the sun and half in the moonlight. It feels like we’ve carved out our own world—a quiet little corner of time that doesn’t belong to anyone else. The kind of love that doesn’t need fancy dinners or date nights to feel special. It’s right here in the stillness, in the way he passes me the remote or refills his glass without saying a word because he knows I’m mid-sentence. It’s in the laughter when the bunny knocks something over. It’s in the quiet when the credits roll and we both just sit there, smiling.

And maybe that’s what I’ve learned through all this: love isn’t always about grand gestures or perfect timing. Sometimes it’s about the little surprises—the shifts in routine that make you see each other in a new light. The nights you didn’t plan that turn into the memories you’ll talk about years later. The simple things that somehow feel like everything.

So, while the rest of the world is sleeping, we’ll keep doing our thing. Watching our movies. Talking until the sun starts peeking through the windows. Laughing about how weird it is that the bunny has more energy than both of us combined. And when he finally gets up to go to bed, the house feels warm and full and content. Like love has been here all night, keeping us company.

Because sometimes, love doesn’t show up as roses or candlelight dinners. Sometimes, it’s a night shift. A glass of whiskey. A cigarette on the porch. A shared laugh in the dark.

And somehow—it’s perfect.

You ever send a message so bold, so beautifully unapologetic, that you just know it’s going to cause a small earthquake in the family group chat?

That was me.

The moment I hit send, I knew it was over — not just the sisterhood, but the whole psychological hostage situation I’d been living in since childhood. The invisible leash snapped. The emotional Wi-Fi? Disconnected.

But what came next? Oh, baby. Grab a snack.

The Fallout: Live From the Gaslight Lounge

So Dr. Doom does what all emotionally constipated people do when you finally call them out: she deflected.

Within five minutes, she sent back:

> “You’re psychotic. This is psychotic behavior. Read what you wrote to a therapist and see what they say.”

Ma’am. You are the therapist. Read it to yourself in the mirror.

I sat there laughing like a lunatic in my camper kitchen, bunny staring at me like, “Mom’s unhinged again.”

Because this woman — this fully licensed, degree-having, fee-charging therapist — really thought calling her out for abuse was “psychotic.”

Meanwhile, she’s the one who used to chase me down the hallway with a hairbrush for “rolling my eyes wrong.”

The Greatest Hits of Denial

It’s wild how abusers have amnesia until you remind them of something — then suddenly, you’re “making it up.”

I told her,

> “We will never speak again. This is it. I’m not psychotic — but you are, and you’re deflecting.”

And that, my friends, was the moment peace entered the chat.

She replied,

> “Show what you sent to me to a psych and then get back to me.”

Okay, gaslight queen! We love a delusional diagnosis!

It’s funny — she can remember every single one of her clients’ trauma timelines but not a single thing she did to me. What a coincidence.

The Freedom: That Sweet, Silent Peace

The next morning, I woke up and did something revolutionary: nothing.

No explaining. No defending. No overthinking.

I made coffee, kissed my baby, fed the bunny, and for the first time in my entire life, didn’t check my phone waiting for her to “forgive” me for my feelings.

Because the truth is, I didn’t lose a sister — I lost a lifelong critic.

And I gained peace.

I didn’t realize how heavy it was carrying someone else’s version of me around all these years. Their “crazy little sister,” their “problem child,” their “emotional one.”

That wasn’t me. That was their story.

And guess what? I quit the cast.

The Humor in Healing

I’ll admit — I laughed about it all day.

Because honestly, when your sister—excuse me, Dr. Doom—calls you psychotic for setting a boundary, you have to laugh.

It’s comedy gold.

It’s like being told you’re “dramatic” by the woman who once screamed for 20 minutes because I borrowed her hair tie.

She really said, “Read this to a therapist,” like it was the ultimate clapback.

Honey, I did. Me. I read it to myself, out loud, and clapped at the end.

The Epiphany: Not My Circus, Not My Therapy Bill

Here’s the thing — I used to think “family is forever.”

Now I realize: yeah, forever toxic if you let it be.

You can love someone and still walk away.

You can understand why they are the way they are, and still say, “No thanks.”

You can heal without sending them an invite to your healing party.

I’ve spent years trying to earn her empathy, not realizing she pawned it off somewhere around 2003.

I thought maybe if I was calmer, kinder, more forgiving — she’d change.

But all that does is keep you on the therapy treadmill, running to nowhere.

Now? I’m off the machine. Hydrated. Stretching in peace.

The Post-Text Clarity

When I deleted the TextNow app, I felt like I was deleting a part of myself I didn’t need anymore — the part that still thought I needed her approval to feel valid.

And sure, she might tell the whole family I’ve “lost it.”

Fine. Let them think I’m crazy.

I’d rather be “crazy” and peaceful than “sane” and still babysitting her ego.

Because the truth is, she didn’t raise herself to be cruel — our mother did.

But she’s a grown-ass woman now. And when you know better, you do better.

She just… doesn’t.

That’s not my burden anymore.

The Aftermath: Plot Twist, I’m Thriving

It’s been days now. No texts. No guilt. No anxiety.

Just me, my baby, my bunny, and the quiet hum of freedom.

I used to think peace would feel boring.

Turns out, it’s hilarious.

Because every time I think about that message — about her typing “psychotic” with her little therapist thumbs — I laugh out loud.

You can’t make this stuff up.

My sister, the therapist, got called out and diagnosed herself with denial.

Meanwhile, I’m over here writing blog posts and drinking my coffee like,

> “This one’s for the siblings who got blamed for surviving.”

The Mic Drop

So, to anyone reading this who’s got a “Dr. Doom” in their life — whether it’s a sister, a cousin, or a parent — let me just say this:

You’re not crazy for remembering what they did.

You’re not dramatic for wanting peace.

And you’re not wrong for choosing distance over dysfunction.

Sometimes you don’t get closure. You get clarity.

And sometimes that clarity comes through a TextNow app at 2 a.m.

So cheers to that.

To freedom. To peace.

To not giving a single fuck about what the family therapist thinks.

Because for the first time in forever… I’m laughing again.

And damn, it feels good to be the sane one.

Let me start by saying: sometimes peace looks like downloading a burner app at 2 a.m.

Yeah, I said it. TextNow.

Because when you’re finally ready to tell your sister—the one who spent your entire childhood turning your trauma into her personality—that you’re done, you don’t do it with your real number. You do it with the anonymity of a petty queen who’s had enough.

So there I was, sitting in my camper (because yes, I now live my best unbothered life on wheels), baby asleep, bunny chilling nearby, and me… simmering in ten years of pent-up “I remember everything you did, Dr. Doom.”

And I hit send.

The Text (a.k.a. My Masterpiece)

It started off calm. Real professional.

> “So three weeks and that’s it this time? You know I talked to Dad and he said he’d talk to you for me but I think I’m just gonna have to let you go for good this time.”

Look at that. Mature. Therapeutic even. Which is funny, considering she’s the therapist.

Then I went in for the kill (emotionally speaking):

> “Our whole lives you’ve done nothing but abuse me. That’s what Stacee raised you to do. And I won’t allow you to abuse me anymore.”

Mic drop.

Now, normal humans—ones with an ounce of self-awareness—might have said something like, “I’m sorry. I was awful. I’m working on myself.”

But not Dr. Doom. Oh, no. She went full textbook projection. She said:

> “This is psychotic behavior. You should read what you wrote to a therapist.”

Babe. You are a therapist. Should I Venmo you the copay?

Childhood Flashbacks: The Doom Origin Story

Let me back up. Because people always ask, “Well, where did all this start?”

It started in the house where empathy went to die. Our mother—let’s call her The Professor of Cruelty—raised Dr. Doom like she was breeding a mini-me. If Mom was mean, my sister had to be meaner. If Mom threw shade, my sister threw the whole damn tree.

I was the designated emotional punching bag. The family mascot of “let’s blame her for everything.”

But I was the nice one. I played peacemaker. I hugged the people who slammed doors in my face. I apologized for breathing too loud.

And somewhere between “Mom said you’re dramatic” and “You’re lucky I even talk to you,” I decided… yeah, no.

This isn’t family. It’s unpaid emotional labor with blood ties.

The Therapy Cover-Up

The real kicker? Dr. Doom went and got herself a degree in psychology. Yep.

At first, I thought maybe—just maybe—it meant she’d reflect. Heal. Evolve.

Nope. She just found a way to dress up her manipulation in clinical terms. Suddenly, I wasn’t “hurt” or “traumatized”—I was “projecting.” If I called her out, I was “unregulated.”

And if I dared to remember anything she did, it was “my version of events.”

Oh, you mean when you always called me a crazy bitch when I didn’t allow you to be mean to me? Yeah, that version.

She became a therapist not to heal people—but to hide behind the title like a damn invisibility cloak. Because who’s going to question the therapist when she calls you crazy?

The TextNow Liberation Movement

So when I texted her, it wasn’t about revenge. It was about reclaiming the narrative.

That app—free, anonymous, petty perfection—felt like poetic justice. It’s where burner energy meets emotional closure.

I told her:

> “You can tell yourself whatever story helps you sleep at night, but I’m done being the villain in it. I know what you did. You know what you did. I’m not angry anymore. I just refuse to keep pretending you didn’t do it.”

She read it instantly. I could practically feel the eye roll through the screen. Then came that gem of a response:

> “You need serious help.”

Oh, trust me, I’ve had help. It’s called self-respect. You should try it sometime.

The Twist Ending (For Now)

The best part? After I sent that message, I didn’t spiral. I didn’t cry. I didn’t even second-guess it.

I just… exhaled.

Because sometimes closure doesn’t come with hugs or mutual healing or long, teary phone calls. Sometimes closure comes from hitting send on a TextNow number you’ll delete ten minutes later.

It was like cutting the last string of a puppet show I didn’t sign up for.

And yeah, maybe she’s sitting somewhere diagnosing me over brunch, telling her coworkers that I’ve “decompensated.” That’s fine. Let her. I’ve spent my whole life being the patient in her story—she can keep her fantasy chart.

Because in mine? I’m finally the one writing the discharge papers.

To be continued…

Next up: Part 2 – “The Fallout & the Freedom”

Where Dr. Doom doubles down, I sip my coffee unbothered, and we talk about the divine comedy that is cutting off toxic family.

“The Littlest Pumpkin King” 🎃👶🍂

In a backyard full of autumn gold,

Where crisp cool breezes danced and rolled,

A pumpkin sat so round and bright,

It shimmered softly in the light.

Then came a baby, chubby and sweet,

With giggly eyes and kicking feet.

He plopped right in that pumpkin wide—

And magic sparked from deep inside!

The vines began to twist and twine,

Leaves shimmered with a golden shine,

And tiny sprites with acorn wings,

Came whispering soft, “The Pumpkin King!”

They bowed before his smiling face,

As laughter filled the pumpkin space.

The patch awoke with joy and cheer,

For Hank the King was finally here.

Now every fall when leaves drift down,

And pumpkins dot the sleepy town,

You might just hear his joyful ring—

Let’s talk about Lilley. Every workplace has one, right? The person who somehow thinks they’re running the show when, in reality, we’re all just trying to get through an eight-hour shift without losing our minds or our lunch.

So, picture this: I’m a CNA — have been for years. I’ve wiped more butts, changed more briefs, and comforted more grandmas than I can count. I love it. It’s my calling. I’m meant to take care of living things, whether they’re 96-year-old ladies or rabbits that think they own my couch.

Then along comes Lilley.

Now, Lilley used to be a “director” at another assisted living facility. Used to be. Because she got fired. Huh. Fired directors don’t usually demote themselves to nursing assistants unless something spicy went down. But did Lilley humble herself? Oh no. She strutted in like she was the CEO of Geritol.

Within a week, she’s telling management that I should be fired because I “wasn’t good at my job.” Excuse me? Me? The same me who’s been there for years and has grandmas hugging me on their way to bingo?

She’d get on the walkie every five minutes like she was hosting a radio show. “Walkie check,” she’d bark. And if you didn’t answer within three seconds, she’d say, “Aimee, why aren’t you responding?”

Well gee, I don’t know, Lilley — maybe because I’m elbow-deep in a 96-year-old’s diaper? Maybe because I’m trying to keep someone’s dignity intact while you’re playing air-traffic control for no reason?

When you’re changing a resident, that resident is the only thing that matters. You tune out everything else — the walkies, the noise, the chaos. You focus on that person. But not Lilley. Oh no, she wanted a response immediately. Because apparently, saving her ego was more important than saving someone’s skin from a rash.

And the drama? Lord, the drama.

She’d argue with people right in front of residents. Imagine poor Mrs. Johnson just trying to eat her mashed potatoes while Lilley’s standing there, finger pointing, voice raised, starting World War III over who took the linen cart last.

And she had this weird obsession with trying to get a sweet older coworker named Consuelo fired. Consuelo was in her seventies, mind you — still working hard, still gentle as ever. Lilley made it her personal mission to make that woman’s life miserable. Why? Because Lilley couldn’t stand the fact that Consuelo was loved.

But karma? Karma’s got excellent aim.

Lilley once tried to “call a meeting” with all of us because she “felt hated.” She stood in front of everyone and actually cried, saying, “I know you all hate me.”

And would you believe — not a soul denied it. Everyone spoke up. It was like a workplace intervention, only the subject was pure chaos with a walkie.

By the end, Lilley got herself fired. Management finally caught on. And all I could think was: Gee, who could’ve seen that coming?

Bless her heart.

There are two types of people in this world: those who wake up ready to conquer the day, and those who need at least thirty minutes and a gallon of coffee before forming a coherent thought. My eight-month-old son, Hank, proudly belongs to the first group. I, however, am the founding member of the second.

Every morning begins the same way: I’m in the middle of some beautiful dream—maybe I’m on a beach, maybe I’m alone in Target—and suddenly I hear it. A tiny “ehhh!” from right beside me because yes, we co-sleep. Not a cry, not a scream, just that polite little sound babies make when they’re stretching awake and about to ruin your life.

Before I can even register what planet I’m on, I hear the babbling start. Then comes the banging—Hank kicking the bed like he’s drumming for a punk band. He’s not just awake; he’s thriving. Meanwhile, I’m staring at the ceiling wondering why God created mornings in the first place.

I roll out of bed like a raccoon that’s been hit with a flashlight. My hair looks like I stuck my finger in an outlet, my shirt is inside out, and one sock has disappeared into another dimension. But to Hank, it’s showtime. He’s grinning from ear to ear, ready to discuss all the wonders of the universe before 6:00 AM.

He wants me to clap. He wants me to sing. He wants me to build a tower of blocks immediately. There is no easing into it. No stretching, no “good morning,” no cup of coffee first—just instant engagement, like a live-in personal entertainer contractually obligated to perform on command.

And if I don’t? Oh, the drama. The betrayal. You’d think I told him Santa Claus wasn’t real.

See, Hank believes mornings are for productivity. He’s like, “Mom, it’s a brand-new day! Let’s seize it!” And I’m like, “Sweetheart, I don’t even have control of my limbs yet.”

Every morning, I try to fake it. I do my best “Good morning, baby!” voice, but I’m sure it sounds like a ghost haunting a coffee shop. I pull him close, and he immediately starts bouncing in my arms, squealing, and grabbing my face like, “Smile, woman!” I’m trying, Hank. I’m trying.

Some people talk about “slow mornings” where they make matcha, journal, and meditate. My “slow morning” is trying not to drop the bottle while Hank smacks it out of my hand to grab my nose.

At this point, my morning routine is basically a survival mission:

☕ Step 1: Locate caffeine before collapse.

🧦 Step 2: Find socks. Any socks. Matching is a luxury.

👶 Step 3: Entertain the tiny dictator.

🍌 Step 4: Serve mashed banana like it’s brunch at a five-star resort.

📺 Step 5: Pray for an early nap.

You know what’s wild? The second he finally does nap, I miss him. I sit there scrolling through photos like, “Aww, my happy little morning bird,” completely forgetting that 20 minutes ago I was on the verge of tears because he wanted to play peekaboo before dawn.

Motherhood is funny like that. It’s exhausting and chaotic, but even the moments that make you want to cry also make you laugh—sometimes both at once.

One day, I’ll probably miss these early mornings. I’ll miss hearing that little babble at sunrise. I’ll miss the way he lights up the second I open my eyes. I’ll even miss the 5:47 AM slobbery kisses that smell faintly like formula and betrayal.

But right now? I’m just trying to make it to 8 AM without losing my hair or my sanity.

So to all the other moms out there who are not morning people but birthed one: I see you. I salute you. May your coffee be strong, your patience be stronger, and your baby’s first nap come quickly.

Because no one—and I mean no one—should be expected to perform stand-up comedy before sunrise.

Let’s just start with the obvious: why on earth would I ever want someone else—especially Blabbermouth—to have my son’s firsts? Like, hello? These are my firsts too. My first time seeing him crawl, my first time getting teary-eyed over a tooth popping through, my first time realizing I’m not emotionally prepared for him to grow up this fast. But apparently, according to Blabbermouth, motherhood is a group project and she’s the “lead.”

Now, don’t get me wrong. I love a grandma who loves her grandbaby. Sweet. Precious. Heartwarming. But there’s a fine line between being involved and auditioning for a reboot of Baby Snatchers: The Family Edition.

Let’s rewind to the day she pulled her latest “I got one of his firsts” stunt.

So I’m sitting there, minding my business, trying to keep my baby from licking the coffee table like it’s a popsicle, and she says, “Hey, let’s paint his feet and put footprints on an oven mitt!”

Seems innocent enough, right? Cute idea. Grandma wants something sweet and sentimental to hang in her kitchen while she bakes cookies and pretends she didn’t once say Pilates “won’t keep a man.” (Yes, she really said that.)

Anyway, I go along with it. I grab the paint, grab the mitt, grab the baby—he’s giggling, I’m giggling, everyone’s having a Hallmark moment. I press his tiny feet down, she’s cooing about how adorable it is, and for a fleeting second, I think, Okay, maybe this woman isn’t so bad.

Then she laughs. Not a regular laugh. Not a “how cute!” laugh. No, no, this was a villain origin story laugh.

She looks me dead in the eye and says—

“Ha ha! I got his first footprints!”

Excuse me, what?

This woman said it like she just won The Price Is Right. Like she’d just hit the grandma jackpot.

Meanwhile, I’m standing there with a baby covered in blue paint thinking, “Did I just participate in my own emotional robbery?”

But here’s the thing. She didn’t get anything. Because guess what? I took the oven mitt when I moved. That’s right—packed it up, tossed it in the moving box between the burp cloths and the bunny food, and got out of there like a mom on a mission.

And honestly, I thought for sure she’d bring it up later. I was prepared for battle. Ready for the passive-aggressive text:

> “Hey, I think you accidentally took the mitt with HIS FIRST FOOTPRINTS on it 🥺”

But nothing. Radio silence. She hasn’t said a word.

So either she knows she was wrong… or she’s plotting her next “first.”

Maybe she’s waiting to pounce on his first haircut. Or his first lost tooth. Or his first word—she’ll probably tell everyone it was “Grandma” even if it’s just him coughing up a puff snack.

And the worst part? My boyfriend—her son—thinks all of this is normal. Like, sir. You came from this woman, so maybe you’re immune to her chaos, but the rest of us are not. I try to explain how much it bothers me, and he hits me with the world’s most useless sentence:

> “She’s just excited.”

Oh, okay. I’ll remember that the next time she claims his first sneeze as her own. “She’s just excited” my butt.

You know what “just excited” people do? They clap. They smile. They take pictures with permission. They don’t trick me into a craft session and then claim ownership over my baby’s body parts in acrylic paint form.

The truth is, it’s not even about the mitt. It’s about the principle. It’s about the fact that every little “first” feels like magic when it’s your baby. You wait months for it, you daydream about it, you cry when it happens, and you replay it in your head over and over again because it’s yours.

And for someone else to just swoop in and say, “Mine!” like a toddler grabbing a toy—oh no, we’re not doing that.

So, Blabbermouth, if you’re reading this (and I’m sure you are, because nosiness is basically your cardio), let me clarify a few things:

You didn’t get his first footprints.

You won’t be getting his first haircut.

And if you try to get his first anything else, I will personally start labeling everything “NOT YOUR FIRST” in permanent marker.

Motherhood is wild enough without having to play Defender of the Firsts. But apparently, that’s where I’m at—standing guard over milestones like they’re national treasures.

Because at the end of the day, these moments are mine. The 3 a.m. feedings, the giggles, the crawling, the teeth, the tiny blue-painted feet. All mine.

So no, Blabbermouth. You didn’t “get” his first footprints.

You got played.

And the oven mitt?

Still in my cabinet. Right where it belongs.

You ever get your sister back in your life for, like, two weeks — just long enough to think, “Wow, maybe this time it’ll be different” — and then boom, she blocks you again? Yeah. That’s where I’m at.

Now let me preface this by saying I knew it would happen again. I just didn’t think it would happen faster than a carton of milk going bad. Two weeks! That’s barely enough time to form a new family group chat, let alone get blocked from it.

Anyway, apparently the Mormons are to blame this time.

The Great Mormon Incident of 2025

So picture this: my sister’s in Florida, minding her own business, probably sipping an iced latte and pretending she’s not related to anyone. Then, out of nowhere, the Mormons show up at her door — asking for our mother.

Now if you’ve never met our mother, count your blessings. She’s a walking Lifetime movie marathon, and she’s got more “chapters” than the Bible the Mormons brought to my sister’s doorstep.

The real kicker? My sister has no contact with our mother. Like, zero. Nada. Ghosted since forever. And somehow, in her mind, the only logical explanation for these missionaries finding her address was… me.

Apparently, in her head, I’m sitting in a dark room, tapping away on some Mormon hotline whispering, “Hey, Elders, here’s a fun one. Go knock on my sister’s door. She’ll love that.”

Newsflash: I Don’t Even Know What Town She Lives In

I don’t know her address. I don’t know her city. I barely know her time zone. For all I know, she could be living in a retirement community under a fake name raising iguanas.

But nope — somehow, I’m the culprit.

So naturally, I got mad. Because it’s always me getting accused of things I couldn’t possibly do. I called my dad — because when in doubt, drag the whole family in — and I might’ve cussed him out. Just a little. Okay, maybe a lot. But in my defense, it’s genetic chaos. I didn’t choose this family; I was drafted.

The “You’re Blocked” Classic

And just like that, she blocked me again. No explanation, no goodbye, just poof. Two weeks of sisterhood — gone.

Honestly, I should’ve seen it coming. The last time she reappeared in my life, it was like watching a soap opera rerun you already know the ending to. You want to hope maybe this time the character arcs will change, maybe this time she won’t slam the metaphorical door — but nope. Cue dramatic music, fade to black, blocked.

Let’s Review the Timeline

Week 1: Reunion! “I missed you so much!” “We have to catch up!” “Let’s never fight again!”

Week 2: Mormons.

Truly, if there were a Guinness World Record for shortest sibling reconciliation, we’d be in the book.

Family Drama Math

It’s always the same equation:

1 Confused Sister + 2 Mormons + 1 Crazy Mom + 1 Overreacting Dad = Me Cry-Laughing Into My Coffee

I swear, my family’s group dynamic could be used as a case study in a psychology class titled “What Not To Do.”

The Aftermath

So here I am, blocked again. You’d think I’d be sad, but honestly? I’m just impressed at the creativity. Mormons. That’s a new one. Last time, I think it was because I didn’t “like” her Facebook post fast enough. The time before that, I apparently “looked too happy” in a picture.

If pettiness were an Olympic sport, my sister would have more gold medals than Simone Biles.

Lessons Learned (Kind Of)

1. Never get too comfortable in temporary peace. It’s just the calm before the Mormon storm.

2. Keep your expectations low and your screenshots ready.

3. Always remember: if something weird happens anywhere on the planet, it’s probably your fault.

But the real lesson? Family is weird. It’s messy. It’s dramatic. It’s a never-ending sitcom that somehow got renewed for 30 more seasons without your consent.

And honestly, if we can’t laugh about it, we’ll just end up crying on the kitchen floor eating cold pizza. So I choose laughter.

At least until she unblocks me again in six months with a text like, “Hey.”

To which I’ll respond, “You again?”