Kids, Am I Right? (A Tale of Love, Target, and a Broken Slip n’ Slide)

Kids, am I right?

sigh

Today was… a day.

Last night, my six-year-old went to bed at 8 PM.
Did she fall asleep at 8 PM?

Absolutely not.

Try 10 PM.

Because at some point between “goodnight” and “why are your eyes still open,” she hit me with the emotional equivalent of a freight train:

She told me she comes into my room so much because she misses our old house.
She misses sleeping closer to me.
She misses holding my hand while she falls asleep.

And just like that, I was no longer a parent with boundaries. I was a puddle.

So there I am at 9:30 PM, holding her hand for 30 minutes, singing our two bedtime songs, waiting for her to drift off while mentally canceling all expectations for the next day.

Because how do you say no to that?

You don’t.
You just accept your fate.

Fast forward to 7 AM.

I wake her up for what she lovingly calls “horse school,” and this child—this same child who refused sleep the night before—asks for “just a few more minutes.”

Oh, now we want sleep.

Cool. Cool cool cool.

I let her sleep a bit longer, we get ready, and I take her to get a donut before horse camp because apparently I reward chaos now.

When I pick her up (a whole five minutes late, call the authorities), she walks up to the car and says she missed me and wants to go home.

Adorable.

Denied.

Because we were near Target, and I never get to go to Target.

So off we went.

Two hours.

Two. Hours.

Of “Mom, I want to go home.”
“Mom, you said this was the last aisle.”
“Mom, you said this was the last aisle.”

And listen—she’s not wrong.

But also… I just wanted to do one thing.

She did, however, secure a lollipop and a full set of princess dress-up accessories: crown, shoes, the works.

So really, who’s the winner here?

(It’s not me.)

We get home, and I am immediately informed—loudly—that she is upset because we didn’t see her dad before he left for work.

For the record, he left before we would have gotten home anyway.

But logic has no place here.

Then comes the slip n’ slide.

A brand-new purchase. Not even two days old.

It breaks.

Naturally, she blames her brother.

I step in and explain, in my calmest possible voice, that the real culprit is poor manufacturing choices, not her sibling.

She responds with… whining. Lots of it.

Dinner?

Hot dogs for the kids.

A beer for me.

And before anyone says anything—beer has wheat in it.

It’s basically a grain.

I’m thriving.

7:30 PM rolls around, and my son—who is currently in a “scared to poop on the potty” phase—spends a solid amount of time negotiating for a diaper.

Long story short: the diaper wins.

But.

Both kids are asleep by 7:30.

And I got to lay in my bathtub and read a book.

Miracles do happen, folks.

Some days are chaos.
Some days are emotional.
Some days are Target marathons fueled by stubborn determination.

And some days end in a quiet bath with a book and absolute silence.

Those are the wins.

Even if you had to survive everything else to get there.