Chaos, Car Washes, and Circus Acts: A Letter to My Fellow Moms

Dear Fellow Mama in the Trenches, 

You, who are trying to fold the laundry with one hand while doing your best dance-and-sing routine with the other to entertain the babies just long enough to avoid total mutiny. You, who manage to smile while dripping sweat, juggling bottles, sniffing diapers, and being slowly undone by your toddler, gleefully unfolding the laundry you just folded, as if it's a new Olympic sport.

I was there, literally yesterday.

Some days feel like I’m starring in a one-woman circus with laundry as my trapeze, bottles as juggling pins, and my toddler as the enthusiastic but chaotic ringmaster. And I’m the act that never gets a break.

It started innocently enough. We had a leisurely, relaxed morning. Everyone slept in, and the sun was shining. It’s going to be a great day, except for that quarter-sized spider I spotted in the bathroom that will now haunt my nightmares (shudder!). I even got a nap in while the girls napped! Hallelujah! No nap for the toddler, though, because goodness knows something amazing would happen while he slept, and mama is tired of battling him for 3 hours every day to take a nap, when he still ends up wide awake until bedtime. 

The Shower Saga

So the girls were napping, my toddler was with my husband in the living room, and I dared to believe I could shower in peace for a few minutes. Just in case, I left the bathroom door open (because I’m a mom, not a rookie). I’d just gotten the shampoo lathered when I heard the familiar, rapid pitter-patter of little feet followed by a happy, high-pitched: "Mama! Mama! Mama!"

He bursts into the bathroom with the urgency of a hostage negotiator, then pauses. Confused. The bathroom looks empty to him. Then comes the whispered “...mama?” like I’m a ghost.

I peek out from behind the curtain and say, “I’m in the shower, honey.”

He YANKS the curtain aside, looks at me with pure horror, and gasps: “MAMA. WHY?”

See, we’re in a phase where showers and baths are emotionally traumatic, but running through sprinklers and splashing at water tables with cousins? 100% acceptable. Water in a tub = evil. Water in the yard = heaven.

As I try to reassure him that the water gods are not torturing me, he simply shakes his head and mutters, “No, Mama.” Then calmly grabs his toy cars and proceeds to wash them in my shower water like this is a perfectly normal Tuesday. Apparently, car washes are wonderful, it’s just maternal hygiene that’s terrifying.

Oh, and that giant spider I screamed about in the bathroom earlier? Yeah, it was the cartoon octopus printed on the bubble bath bottle. That same bottle we never use because, say it with me now, baths are evil.

Fold, Unfold, Repeat

Fast forward to a later point in the day. The girls are playing in their playpen, starting to get a little fussy because we are approaching the time for their next round of bottles, and I’m just trying to get that massive pile of laundry folded. That way, I feel somewhat productive for the day, beyond keeping the tiny humans alive. Some days, I feel like I’m one coordinated dance move away from complete collapse, though.

I was trying to fold the laundry while doing my best song-and-dance routine to keep the twins entertained. I’m talking full choreography and off-key vocals, because the bar for entertainment is low when you’re under a year old. One baby was giggling, the other was drooling with mild interest, and I was feeling pretty proud of myself.

Enter: the toddler.

Like a tiny tornado in his Lightning McQueen shirt, living his best agent-of-chaos life, he begins joyfully unfolding every single piece of laundry I had just folded. 

When You Yell for Backup and Get Crickets

I’m desperately singing “If You’re Happy and You Know It” with a smile that says I’m fine, everything’s fine, while one twin starts fussing for a bottle, the other begins to cry in solidarity, and then, because life loves drama, I smell it. One of the girls has had a blowout that could qualify for FEMA support, and I’m yelling “Babe? BABE?!” into the ether, hoping my husband hears my distress signal from whatever man-cave dimension he’s vanished into.

Silence.

Cue the mental soundtrack of my slow unraveling, the tears signaling the exhaustion, and the inevitable feelings of resentment. “Why doesn’t he hear her crying? Where is he?”

After cleaning the current biohazard in the playpen while the other twin and toddler cry for who knows what, crying is the soundtrack to my life anymore; it’s off to find my husband. 

Turns out, plot twist, my husband was being a total gem and had done all the dishes, cleaned the grill, and was prepping dinner. Of course, he was outside during every moment I was shouting for help as though I was on a sinking ship. Later, we laughed about it, because parenting is nothing if not one long, slapstick misunderstanding sprinkled with love and food stains.

Too Many Tasks, Not Enough Chickens

Fast forward a few minutes and now I’m trying to get ready for work, feed the girls, keep the toddler occupied, and stare at the pile of laundry that I was unable to finish folding. At the same time, my husband juggles multiple things for making dinner, feeding dogs, and making sure the toddler doesn’t fall off the coffee table that he's now decided is a better option than his climbing gym. We are two very tired, very flustered chickens with our heads cut off. I manage to get dressed, do my hair and makeup, wrestle a bottle into each twin’s mouth like a caffeine-deprived ninja, only to check my phone and see…client canceled.

OF COURSE THEY DID. Well, at least now I get to eat my wonderful dinner before it gets cold and take a few breaths. 

The Bedtime Hostage Situation

Later that night, the twins are (finally) asleep, and I’m in the next room, logging in for a telehealth session with a client in a different time zone. My toddler is supposed to be snuggling up with Dad for bedtime. Instead, he is banging on the door like it’s the gates of Mordor, screaming my name as if he’s being denied oxygen or he might miss out on mama smuggling cookies or Twizzlers.

He has a serious case of FOMO, bedtime edition. Honestly? Naps are torture. Bedtime is war. Me walking into another room? Treason.

But here’s the thing: as chaotic and overwhelming as these days are, and believe me, they are, they’re also kind of beautiful in their absurdity. The misunderstandings, the tantrums, the mini car washes in my shower…they’re the messy, hilarious moments that make up this wild chapter of life.

To the Moms Still Standing in the Chaos

So, to all my fellow moms, the ones duct-taping together work schedules, meal prep, bottles, and toddler negotiations, I see you. You’re not alone. You’re just in the middle of your own circus, doing your best to fold laundry while singing to your babies, dodging emotional landmines, and trying to keep everyone alive and fed.

And hey, even on days that are filled with chaos and end in screaming toddlers and wet toy cars. we’re still showing up and doing the thing. You’re doing beautifully, even when it feels messy. Especially when it feels messy.

With love, humility, and maybe some dry shampoo,

Your Fellow Mom