Mornings in our house are loud.
Lunches half-packed on the counter, backpacks somewhere they shouldn’t be, and the clock ticking down in a way that feels personal. There’s a very specific window of time — between when the coffee kicks in and when the door closes — where everything feels frantic.
Some mornings feel like a round of Chopped. I’m moving quickly, trying to get everything done at once, and suddenly it’s 8:00 a.m. and I want to drop the knife, put my hands up, and call it. Time’s up.
Their dad walks in from the gym, ready to take them to school, and I’m usually right on the edge of annoyed. Too many questions, too much noise, too little time. I hate how short my patience can feel in those moments.
And then they walk out the door.
The house gets quiet in a way that feels too sudden, and my mind immediately races — replaying what I said, what I should have done differently, how I already miss them. How quickly the frustration turns into longing. How easy it is to feel like an asshole sometimes, even when you love them more than anything.
Lately, I’ve been trying to see these mornings differently.
The chaos isn’t a problem to fix — it’s the season we’re in. The noise, the rush, the imperfect lunches, the countdown to the door closing… this is what our life looks like right now.
And I’m realizing these are the memories we’re building.
Not the perfectly packed lunches or calm mornings, but the real ones. The messy ones. The ones that feel overwhelming in the moment and nostalgic the second they’re gone.
So I’m learning to love the chaos — or at least make room for it. To notice it while I’m in it. To remember that one day, the mornings will be quiet, and I’ll miss this version of them too.
This Ordinary Life 