There is a version of me who remembers everything.
She knows when the form is due. She knows where the library book is. She knows which kid needs what on which day and whether we are out of tortillas, toothpaste, or emotional stability. She signs things. Replies to texts. Packs snacks. Buys the poster board before 9:47 p.m. the night before it is needed.
She also, apparently, no longer works here.
The woman currently filling in for her is doing her best, but she has eaten shredded cheese over the sink like an exhausted possum. She has driven around with three empty cups on the passenger floor, rolling back and forth every time she turns, like a tiny trash avalanche. She has walked into a room, looked around at the situation, and yelled, “WHO USED MY GOOD SCISSORS?” with the energy of a homicide detective who just found the body.
That is who is in charge right now.
And before anybody says self care, or systems, or maybe if you just wake up thirty minutes earlier, let me save us all some time.
This is not a scheduling problem.
This is not a planner problem.
This is not because I forgot to drink water or write down my intentions.
This is because at some point adult life stops feeling like a list of tasks and starts feeling like a raccoon got into the control panel.
The laundry is clean, but it has been in the dryer so long it now counts as a drawer.
The towels are technically done, which feels like enough.
Dinner gets eaten standing up more often than I would like to admit because sitting down feels like one more commitment I am not prepared to make. If I sit, someone will need something. If I stand, I can at least pretend I am still in motion.
There are days I hide in my own house.
Not in a poetic way.
Not in a “mothers are invisible” think piece way.
I mean literally. I will go into the bathroom or laundry room or stand by the side of the bed for a second just to be somewhere nobody is asking me where their charger is.
Sometimes I do not want peace. Peace sounds too ambitious.
I just want a break in being perceived.
And then there is the mess.
The mess changes you.
At first, mess is a problem. You see it, and it needles you. You think, I need to handle that. Then, somewhere down the line, you cross into a stranger territory where the mess stops feeling temporary and starts feeling like part of the architecture.
That cup on the nightstand is no longer clutter. It is a resident.
The pile by the stairs has seniority.
The weird Tupperware in the back of the refrigerator has diplomatic immunity.
Nobody opens it. Nobody questions it. It has become one of those things we all silently agree to live around, like a family secret or a bad lamp.
I used to think getting older would make me more put together.
I really did.
I thought there would come a point where adulthood clicked into place and I would become one of those calm women who just sort of glide through the day. Hair done. House under control. Fruit already cut up in the fridge for no reason other than competence.
I thought I would become efficient. Maybe even elegant.
That did not happen.
Instead, I became incredibly skilled at deciding what does not absolutely have to happen today.
That is not the same thing as giving up, though from the outside I am sure it has a similar look.
Shower at 10 p.m.?
Maybe. Maybe not. Let’s not act like it is a constitutional requirement.
Fold the towels?
They are clean and accessible. Why are we acting like they need a ceremony?
Matching socks?
Honestly that sounds like propaganda. Something invented by Big Sock to keep women from having hobbies.
This is what I mean when I say I have not given up. I have just become deeply realistic.
A lot of what used to feel mandatory now reveals itself as optional. Not morally optional, obviously. I am not saying let raccoons raise the children or keep raw chicken on the counter for a week. I am saying some of the standards I once thought made me a good adult woman were really just habits of panic and performance.
Did I used to think having every throw blanket folded a certain way meant I was holding it together?
Apparently.
Did I once believe a woman with unmatched socks had somehow slid into personal decline?
Embarrassing, but yes.
Now I know better.
Now I know some days success is answering the important text, feeding everyone, finding one clean fork, and not crying because somebody asked where the tape is while standing directly in front of the tape.
And if that sounds like a low bar, I would just say this. The bar was set by people who were not accounting for life as it is actually lived. Life with jobs and bills and school forms and weird emotional static and bodies that get tired in a way that is not cured by a face mask and positive thinking.
A lot of us are out here trying to be decent people in a constant state of interruption.
Of course things get weird.
Of course the fridge gets chaotic.
Of course there is a basket of clean clothes that becomes folklore.
Of course sometimes the only available version of motherhood is a half feral one.
I think that is the part I wish more women would admit out loud. Not for pity. Not for applause. Just because there is something weirdly healing about hearing somebody else say, yes, my house also contains a staircase pile. Yes, I also ate in the kitchen like a nervous animal. Yes, there are moments when I look fully around my own life and think, this is absolutely not what I pictured, but here we all are.
And here is the thing.
The feral version of me is not some failure of the polished version. She is what shows up when the polished version is outnumbered.
She is still getting it done. Maybe not beautifully. Maybe not in matching storage bins. Maybe not with meal prep or a serene morning routine. But things are, by and large, continuing. People are fed. Appointments are mostly made. The basic machinery of life keeps lurching forward.
Not gracefully. But forward.
Some days I am a fully functioning adult woman.
Some days I am a raccoon with a debit card and a vague to do list.
I contain both.
Honestly, most women I know do.
We are not failing at being adults. We are just living in the middle of too much, long enough that the polished mask slips and the real woman comes out. The tired one. The funny one. The irritated one. The one who cuts corners because she has learned that not every ball deserves to stay in the air.
And if I am being honest, I trust her a little more.
She is less elegant, sure.
But she is real.
And she knows where the good scissors used to be.