I know I joke a lot about the boys. Like, a lot. I post a lot about their funny and absurd situations and sayings. And I share hilarious memes about how insane parenting is. But sometimes, it’s so hard and draining. Really really really really…..hard.

This week has been one of those weeks juxtaposed with incredible exciting news and progress in my work life.

My seven year old being home and not going to camp, like we planned this summer, has made things super challenging for me. I am balancing four different worlds of work, plus two kids, full time.

I have a three year old that hasn’t been sleeping in his bed which means, I haven’t been getting sleep.

I’ve dragged them to meetings and coffee shop write sessions. I’ve carted them to and from swim lessons, piano, summer camp (little one is still in his), doctor appointments, make breakfasts, lunches, and dinners, and snacks so many damn snacks, all while balancing my work load. And this is the job, I know that. I’ve done it for 7.5 years.

Yesterday I had a huge moment in my writing career and they managed to destroy it for me. I am going to say it, and it sounds harsh because they’re kids, but sometimes kids are crazy. Sometimes, they don’t act right. I love them, I would kill for them, I would die for them but yesterday, they didn’t act right.

I had a meeting with my writing coach and what turned into a kid free meeting transitioned to one kid and then after a preschooler morning tantrum begging to stay home, transitioned into me dragging two kids across the city to sit in a coffee shop quietly while I met.

They forgot what the word quiet meant. Erased it from their cognitive function. They were so bad. Jack was challenging me and just disrespectful and defiant. Alex followed his lead. A meeting that I paid an hour for lasted less then thirty minutes. Because I decided to cut it short, after the second “I have to poop, mommy!” statement came. Yes, somehow, two preschooler poops in under thirty minutes.

During one of the brief moments we had to chat before another interruption, she said that the way I was diving into the characters and how I portray these family relationships could really make this book a hit.

Do you know how long I have been waiting to hear those words? I have dreamed of writing a novel since I was a child. And my children, interrupted that blissful bubble within seconds by complaining and throwing things and acting so rude.

I couldn’t even relish that comment. I didn’t even get two seconds of pure bliss about it.

I know this post may seem whiny and complainy, but I truly don’t do this a lot with my kids. I take it all with a grain of salt, mostly. I crack jokes and find the absurd humor in how wild a ride this is. Because it is. And if you don’t fucking laugh, you will just sit in a corner and cry about it. And that’s no fun.

But this time was different. It was too far. This time was a dream of mine and all I asked for was for them to sit quietly on their devices, which you would think would be amazing. Unlimited unsupervised screen time! They couldn’t. They wouldn’t. They didn’t. They refused.

Moms have limits. Edges. Every so often our precious bundles of joy nudge a little too close and, boop, we go over that edge. This was me yesterday. Right over the edge. I am burnt out, to say it gently.

Being a working mom, especially a work from home freelancer extraordinaire mom is fucking hard. I am expected to be a full time mom and a full time writer/officer/director/secretary (these are all the hats I wear). I wear them by choice. They are all passion projects. I want to wear them. But I also want someone to cut me some fucking slack, coughcoughkidscoughcough.

I don’t have a lot of mom in me today. I have been lazy. I haven’t been able to focus on my book, which I should still be riding that comment/thought, but I was just staring at my document and nada. I did feel all of this that I poured into this post. Maybe this will help. Writing is my catharsis, after all. Maybe I will use what happened yesterday in the book somehow, twisting and turning that moment into the story I have been pouring every fiber of my being into. Art imitates life.

But today, today, I wanted to feel sorry for myself. Tomorrow, tomorrow they go away for the weekend with Grandma. Tomorrow, I reset. Tomorrow, I write.