So I started a new job. In-person. Like, real pants with buttons and zippers, real commute, real coworkers in a physical space where you can’t just pretend your camera is broken because you’re in a rocking chair and eating shredded cheese out of the bag while you try to snack on Keto.
And let me tell you. I am being TESTED. Like, emotionally, spiritually, logistically… just body-slammed by the Universe while trying to look competent and professional for my new fancy job.
See, when you go from flexible work-from-home chaos to actual office life, you discover that your children have roughly the same level of daily logistical complexity as a NASA launch sequence. One missed step, and you’ve got someone showing up to tae kwon do with no karate pants and a frozen waffle as a snack (i tried cooking on my dash since Vegas is 100 degrees +).
Which is why I did what any self-respecting modern mom would do: I built a shared spreadsheet.
Yes, a color-coded masterpiece. “Who goes where, when, and with what bag.” Swim bag. Ballet bag. Homework folder. Emotionally supportive water bottle. You name it. If I die suddenly, this spreadsheet will be my legacy. They’ll read it at my funeral and whisper, “She really tried her best” and “Boy, she was a good sport.”
Then came the kicker.
I had a nanny consult. You know, just to see if we could bring in some reinforcement because I was close to putting a note on my windshield that says, “Do not tow, family lives here now.” And do you know what she said?
She looked me straight in the eyes and said:
“You don’t need a nanny. You need a house manager.”
A what now?
A house manager. As if I live in a sprawling estate in the Hamptons and regularly host themed dinner parties for 14 and bring in Escape Room party event planners.
I was like, “Ma’am. I still buy my kids clothes from the Target clearance section and our home smells like a blend of puppy food and chlorine-laden bathing suits to be washed. I don’t even have a dining room anymore, it’s covered in laundry and bead seats and a crystal growing section.”
But then she explained it. Apparently, a house manager is someone who manages the house, as in: errands, groceries, laundry, bills, appointments, returns, birthday parties, wrapping paper sourcing, permission slip remembering, and the whole circus that is modern motherhood.
And I said, “Ohhhh… so I am the house manager. I just don’t get paid and it’s my third job after a full time job and a side business LLC.”
Cool cool cool.
Then, as if the universe wanted to underline the fact that I’m barely hanging on, my car got recalled. Not for something easy like a windshield wiper but because they are EXPLODING and causing HOUSE FIRES. They’re not even going to fix them, they are impounding the whole year and just calling it a day.
Because even my car knows I’m overheating.
And amidst all of this, people keep talking about self-care and me time.
What is this mythical me time? Is it when I lock myself in the bathroom with a protein bar and scroll Zillow listings for mansions in towns I’ll never move to? Because if so, I’m nailing it.
I did ask another mom what she does for self-care and she said “Pilates and cryotherapy.”
So now I’m looking for recommendations. Moms, what are we doing for self-care these days?
- Can I count walking the dog while pretending I don’t see the neighbors?
- Does hiding in the laundry room with a podcast and a LaCroix count?
- Is buying a fresh tinted lip balm every time I go to Target its own wellness ritual?
- Can we normalize “me time” being 7 uninterrupted minutes of silence where no one asks where their shoes are?
Anyway, this job is going great. I love being challenged, I love being part of a team, and I love being out of the house. I just need 17 more hours in the day, one house manager (who also makes good lunches), and a car that doesn’t spontaneously combust.
Until then, I’ll be over here updating the spreadsheet, not parking the car in the garage, and Googling “massages for moms” that targets where I’m sore (it’s all over hahaha).
Wish me luck.
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