(Written a couple of weeks ago — but spoiler alert: not much has changed )
It’s 10:48 a.m. and I am overstimulated AF. Evelyn is in rare form today. I’m trying—really trying—to stay kind and calm, but my goodness. It feels like she woke up and decided her mission was to give me the middle finger on repeat. Every “don’t do that” becomes “exactly what I will be doing, thank you.”
Right now she’s roughhousing with our seven-month-old puppy, Finn—teasing him with a toy, then smacking him when he reacts. Random murder-scene screams echo through the house while I’m just trying to enjoy one uninterrupted cup of coffee. Just one. Maybe five quiet minutes to balance the checkbook, pay bills, and scribble a grocery list before the teenagers come back this weekend.
I want to stroll through Target and actually read birthday cards without entertaining a toddler. I want to wander aimlessly without anyone yelling “MOM!” from three rooms away. Instead—here comes Evelyn:
“I WANT WAFFLES!”
“I don’t like Halloween!”
“I don’t like trains!”
She sprints through the open floor plan like a track star yelling, “I have to go potty!”
Cue detective mode. Silence—never a good sign. She’s probably “washing” her hands with half a bottle of soap. Wait—there’s the water.
Fast-forward: she’s on the toilet, declaring she’s done, then not done, then demanding privacy. Two seconds later: “I’m all done now!” Meanwhile, both dogs are in the bathroom because privacy is apparently a luxury. Clark is terrified to miss anything, Finn is nose-deep in toddler business, and I’m just wondering how many hours are left in this day.
Somewhere between refereeing the toddler and keeping the dogs alive, I got hit with another reality check: perimenopause—the gift that shows up right when you think you’re getting your life together. FLO reminds me she’s coming in ten days. Cool, thanks. I just finished.
This summer has been a wrecking ball of lessons. July: allergic reaction = steroids. Then: throw my back out = more steroids. Period won’t leave for fourteen days when all I want is to feel like myself (and maybe have a smidge of intimate time with my husband!). September: fifteen days late. Pee on a stick—negative. Next day? “Hey girl, miss me?”
In August, I finally went back to the gym. Eased in. Didn’t go hard. Hydrated, stretched, even popped a gabapentin “just in case.” Treated my body like the temple it could be. Drew a lavender bath, went to bed feeling like I had my life together. Then 11:30 p.m. hits—every joint on fire. Head, shoulders, knees, and even my toes (sing it!). The lactic acid burn didn’t just hit my thighs—it hit my knuckles. WTF?!
Nick, of course, asked “Chad Geppetto” (a.k.a. ChatGPT) what was wrong with me. Answer: perimenopause. Lower estrogen = less anti-inflammatory magic = harder workout recovery. Fun.
Still, I thought, okay—I’ll build consistency. And then Evelyn decided ChildWatch was terrifying. Fixated on one sweet staff member (shout-out to Ms. T, who was just helping me sneak out the door), she now screams: “She took me away from Mommy! I’m scared of her!” The meltdown was so bad they actually called me—first time ever.
Two more attempts. Same meltdown. And that was it. I haven’t been back in two weeks because honestly, I don’t have the bandwidth for that battle. It’s yet another thing I’m not doing for myself. Nick’s super supportive—he tells me to go when he gets home—but after being up at 5:15 a.m. and doing all the SAHM things, by 6:45 p.m. I just want to collapse and snuggle him. Which is a kind of self-care… but still.
Now I’m tired all the time. Quick to snap. Sometimes zoning out like I left my brain in the fridge next to the pumpkin-spice oat milk. Funny at first—now? Not so much.
And then there are the pets. Overstimulation isn’t just for toddlers. The dogs follow me everywhere. Finn thinks his purpose in life is to lick me every time I put on lotion. His Aussie need-to-touch leaves me looking slightly bruised (I’m fine, I promise). Clark, my bichon-poodle shadow, insists on lap snuggles until Finn body-slams him off. Meanwhile, Charlie the cat perches on the chair behind me like the king of the house. Finn sees him, eyes wide with desperate hope—“PLEASE be my friend!” Charlie, of course, declines.
So here I am: toddler yelling about waffles, dogs in a soap opera over my attention, cat silently judging. And me? I just want a nap.
But then there are small victories. Laundry folded. Dishes done. Bills paid. I even tucked Evelyn in for her nap at 11:30 a.m. without a fight. White noise on, lights out, and she hasn’t moved in thirty minutes. And I got another blog post locked and loaded. Victory!
And if you haven’t watched Night Bitch yet—do it. Moms, especially SAHMs, will get it. It nails that rinse-repeat, Groundhog-Day feeling of motherhood: comforting yet absolutely exhausting. For those of us who’ve worked and raised kids, being home is a gift… but sometimes it feels like being lost in the sauce. Night Bitch is raw, funny, unhinged, and real—a must-see.
So yes, I’m overstimulated, exhausted, hormonal, and riding the rollercoaster of invisible work. But I’m also consistent. Resilient. And even in the chaos, teaching Evelyn how to rest while reminding myself I deserve the same.
And coffee? I do get my peaceful cup early, before Evelyn’s up, when Nick and I sit together before work. But by mid-morning, I always want more. I know it adds to the overstimulation, but that smell, that warmth—it’s comfort. Maybe it’s nostalgia from living in Germany and fetching coffee for Mom, or maybe it’s three years in the caffeine chaos of Starbucks. Either way, coffee is still my love language.
Head, shoulders, knees, and overstimulated AF. Somebody please just let me drink this cup while it’s still hot.
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