I would really like to know when my last nerve became community property.
Because everybody in this house is using it.
At the same time.
Nobody can find anything. Nobody can answer their own questions. Somebody is yelling “Mom?” from another room like I have built in sonar and can somehow tell what they need without getting up.
Where are my shoes?
I don’t know.
Have you seen my charger?
No.
What’s for dinner?
The thing I am literally standing here cooking.
And my personal favorite, “There’s nothing to eat.”
There is food. There is always food. You just don’t want any of the food we currently own.
That is a completely different emergency.
By about five o’clock, I have usually answered enough questions that I no longer want anyone speaking directly to me.
Not because I hate my family.
I love them.
I just need everyone to stop requiring information from me for ten damn minutes.
Go look.
Move something.
Open a cabinet.
Use your eyes.
There are days I swear my entire household would stand helplessly in front of a roll of toilet paper and call me at work to ask what happens next.
And it is never one huge thing that finally gets me.
It is stupid little crap.
Someone puts an empty box back in the pantry.
Someone leaves exactly one paper towel on the roll.
There is a cup sitting six inches away from the dishwasher.
A person walks past the trash can, sees that it is full, balances one more thing on top and walks away like they have successfully completed a task.
That one really gets me.
You saw it.
You knew.
You made a decision.
This is why I laughed when I found a candle that says, “Mom’s Last Nerve. Oh look… it’s on fire.”
That is not even a candle at that point.
That is a warning device.
You light that thing on the kitchen counter and everybody should know the situation.
Maybe don’t ask Mom where your black hoodie is right now.
Maybe figure out your own password.
Maybe eat the cereal without asking whether we have milk when the refrigerator is right there.
I don’t even need another candle. I have candles.
I have normal candles that smell like lavender and vanilla and whatever else is supposed to convince me I live somewhere peaceful.
This one feels more accurate.
[Link the Mom’s Last Nerve candle here]
Honestly, I think moms deserve more products based on our actual lives.
Not another mug that says Mama Bear.
Give me a door sign that says “If you yell Mom from another room, I will assume you are on fire.”
Give me a decorative basket labeled “Things Everyone Claims They Couldn’t Find.”
Give me a little trophy for putting a new trash bag in the can after somebody else removed the old one and apparently decided the job ended there.
Because some days motherhood is beautiful and sweet and meaningful.
And some days I am standing in the kitchen holding a pair of scissors asking why they are sticky.
Nobody knows.
Nobody ever knows.
I used to think I would eventually become one of those organized women who stayed ahead of everything.
Cute calendar.
Clean countertops.
Dinner planned before noon.
Turns out I am much better at figuring out exactly how long we can continue functioning before something actually has to be done.
Clean towels in the dryer?
Those are available towels.
Laundry basket full of clothes?
Portable closet.
One weird container in the back of the refrigerator that nobody remembers making?
That belongs to the house now. Leave it alone.
This is not giving up.
This is resource management.
I have only so many hours, so much patience and apparently one remaining nerve.
And everybody keeps touching it.
So yes, I would absolutely light the stupid candle.
Not because it is going to make me less annoyed.
But because maybe somebody will read it before asking me where the tape is.
And that alone might buy me five minutes.