When Your Dream Home Becomes a Nightmare: What I Learned from Our Home Inspection Fiasco

Posted by Natasha Red on March 14, 2025

You know those moments in life when you’re absolutely certain you’ve made a terrible, possibly financially catastrophic decision? Last month, I had one of those moments standing in the basement of what was supposed to be our dream home, watching water seep through the foundation while our real estate agent awkwardly checked her phone.

Let me back up. After seven years in our current house—the one where we brought Lily home from the hospital, where Jake learned to ride a bike in the driveway, and where Emma has claimed the corner bedroom as her “teenage sanctuary”—Mark and I decided we needed more space. Three growing kids, two work-from-home parents (at least part-time), and one increasingly irritable cat meant we were bursting at the seams.

When we found the two-story colonial with the big backyard and the finished basement (hello, potential home office!), we fell hard. Like, “writing an offer $15K over asking price” hard. The kind of hard where you’re already mentally arranging furniture and planning where to hang family photos.

“I’ve Seen Homeowners Make Expensive Mistakes That Could’ve Been Prevented”

This is where I should have remembered what Geremey Engle, a home inspector from Winchester, VA, once said in an article I bookmarked years ago: “The biggest mistake I see homeowners make is falling in love with a property and then overlooking critical issues because they’re already emotionally invested. I’ve seen homeowners make expensive mistakes that could’ve been prevented with proper inspection and due diligence.”

Did I heed this sage wisdom? Of course not! I’m Natasha, the woman who once decided she could cut her own bangs at 11 PM after three glasses of wine. Rational decision-making isn’t always my strong suit.

Mark and I were so confident in the house’s condition (it looked perfect! the owners seemed so nice!) that we considered waiving the inspection to make our offer more competitive. Thankfully, our real estate agent—who deserves a fruit basket or possibly a small island named after her—insisted we keep the inspection contingency.

The Inspection Day from Hell

Fast forward to inspection day. I arrived at the house expecting a quick formality. I’d even brought paint samples to hold up against the walls while the inspector did his thing. But two hours in, I knew something was wrong. The inspector had been in the basement for an unusually long time, and I could hear what sounded like camera clicks and concerned muttering.

When I finally ventured down, I found him taking multiple photos of a section of the foundation wall that was distinctly darker than the rest. As if on cue, a small bead of water emerged from a nearly invisible crack and began its slow journey down the concrete.

“Has it rained recently?” he asked, knowing full well it had been bone dry for weeks.

That was just the beginning. Over the next hour, he discovered:

• A roof that had “maybe 2-3 years left, and that’s being generous”
• Electrical wiring that he described as “creative and terrifying”
• Evidence of a previous termite infestation that had been painted over
• HVAC equipment that was approximately 100 years old (slight exaggeration, but only slight)
• And the coup de grâce: signs of black mold behind the recently renovated kitchen

Remember those beautiful kitchen photos that made me swoon? Turns out they were the equivalent of putting lipstick on a toxic, potentially health-hazardous pig.

The Family Meeting

That night, we had what I call a “family summit.” Mark and I sat down with the kids to discuss our options. The repair estimates were coming in at nearly $80,000—money we definitely didn’t have just lying around after making a down payment.

“But I already told Mackenzie which bedroom would be mine,” Emma protested, somehow making this global catastrophe all about her social standing.

“I don’t want mold in my lungs,” Jake countered, suddenly an expert in respiratory health.

Lily, bless her heart, just wanted to know if the new house had good hiding spots for her collection of partially chewed erasers.

Mark, ever the pragmatist, laid out our options: walk away and keep looking, or negotiate with the sellers for significant repairs or price reduction.

The Unexpected Silver Lining

This is where things get interesting—and where I learned something about our family that I might never have discovered if everything had gone smoothly.

We decided to involve the kids in the decision-making process. Not just in a “we’re pretending to listen to you but will do whatever we want” way, but genuinely. We explained the financial implications, the renovation disruption, and the uncertainty. We talked about the difference between cosmetic issues and structural problems, using terms they could understand.

And you know what? They asked amazing questions. Emma wanted to know if we could prioritize repairs based on safety rather than appearance (yes, my appearance-obsessed teenager said this). Jake suggested we get multiple quotes from different contractors. Lily, in her four-year-old wisdom, asked if we could just fix the parts of the house we use the most and leave the rest for later.

In that moment, gathered around our kitchen table with pizza and spreadsheets, I realized we weren’t just teaching our kids about home buying—we were showing them how to handle disappointment, make tough decisions, and problem-solve as a team.

What We Decided

After much deliberation (and several more inspections with specialists), we ended up walking away from the house. The sellers were unwilling to address the major issues, and frankly, the more we learned, the more concerned we became about what else might be lurking behind those freshly painted walls.

Was it disappointing? Absolutely. The kids had already measured their rooms and picked out paint colors. Mark had identified the perfect spot for his grill on the back deck. I’d created an entire Pinterest board dedicated to decorating a house we would never own.

But here’s what Geremey Engle said that really stuck with me: “A home inspection isn’t about finding reasons to walk away from a house you love. It’s about making an informed decision about possibly the largest investment of your life. Sometimes walking away is the best decision you can make for your family’s future.”

He was right. Walking away wasn’t a failure—it was a bullet dodged.

The Lessons We’re Taking Forward

As we restart our house hunt (with slightly more realistic expectations), here’s what we’ve learned:

1. Emotional investment before inspection is dangerous. I now refuse to mentally arrange furniture until all inspections are complete.
2. Kids understand more than we give them credit for. Involving them in big family decisions (in age-appropriate ways) helps them develop critical thinking skills and gives them a sense of control during changes.
3. What looks perfect on the surface often isn’t. This applies to houses, social media posts, and that mom at school pickup who seems to have it all together. (Trust me, she doesn’t.)
4. Sometimes the best decisions feel like disappointments in the moment. Walking away from that house felt like giving up on a dream, but we now realize it was protecting a bigger dream—financial stability and a truly safe home for our family.
5. Always, ALWAYS get a thorough home inspection. This isn’t negotiable, no matter how competitive the market or how perfect the house seems.

We’re still living in our too-small house with our increasingly irritable cat. Emma still complains about sharing a bathroom with her siblings. Jake’s basketball hoop is still too close to the living room window (a fact I’m reminded of weekly). And Lily’s toys continue to multiply like rabbits in every corner.

But we’re together, we’re safe, and we’re not dealing with toxic mold or “creative and terrifying” electrical work. Sometimes that’s victory enough.

As we continue our house hunt with wiser eyes and a more cautious approach, I keep returning to Geremey Engle’s wisdom: “Your dream home shouldn’t keep you up at night with worry. When you find the right house, you’ll sleep soundly knowing you’ve made a sound decision.”

Here’s to future sound sleep—and to house inspectors who save us from ourselves.

Have you ever walked away from something you thought you wanted, only to realize it was the right decision? Share your stories of bullet-dodging in the comments below!

The School Project Panic: How a Simple Assignment Became a Family Crisis

Posted by Natasha Red on March 7, 2025

Let me set the scene: Wednesday night, 8:17 PM. Emma casually mentions as I’m loading the dishwasher, “Oh, I need to bring my ecosystems diorama tomorrow. It’s worth 30% of my science grade.”

Cue the screeching record sound. The blood draining from my face. The sudden realization that we’re about to embark on yet another late-night craft emergency that will test the very fabric of our family unit.

The Initial Shock and Denial Phase

“What diorama?” I ask, hoping against hope that this is somehow a dream or that I’ve completely hallucinated the last 15 seconds.

“The one about ecosystems? Mrs. Peterson assigned it three weeks ago. I need to show a rainforest ecosystem with at least five animals and three distinct vegetation layers. With labels.”

Mark, who has developed a sixth sense for school project disasters, immediately makes himself scarce. I hear the garage door open and close. Smart man.

I take a deep breath and ask the question I already know the answer to: “And what supplies do you have for this project?”

Emma looks at me like I’ve just asked if she’d like to grow a second head. “None? I thought we had stuff in the craft cabinet.”

The “craft cabinet” contains: three dried-out glue sticks, a package of construction paper with only orange sheets left, and roughly 17,000 broken crayons. Definitely not rainforest diorama material.

The Supplies Scramble

8:32 PM: Jake and Lily are technically in bed, though Lily has that pre-meltdown energy that suggests sleep is merely theoretical at this point. I call an emergency family meeting. Mark mysteriously returns from the garage with absolutely nothing accomplished but conveniently after the initial panic has subsided.

“OK, we need a shoebox, green stuff, animal figures, glue that actually works, and whatever else makes a rainforest,” I announce, as if I’m planning a heist rather than a 7th-grade science project.

Jake, suddenly wide awake at the prospect of crisis, volunteers: “I have a shoebox from my new sneakers! But I was saving it for something important.”

“This IS important,” Emma snaps. “My entire future depends on this stupid diorama.”

Mild dramatic, but the urgency is appropriate.

I send Mark to the 24-hour supermarket with a list of supplies while I frantically search YouTube for “easy rainforest diorama” tutorials. Every video starts with “this simple project should take about 30 minutes!” which is how I know they’re all filthy liars.

The Construction Catastrophe

9:45 PM: Supplies acquired. Kitchen table converted to craft central. Lily is now fully awake and insisting she needs to “help” by applying glue to everything within reach, including the cat.

Mark cuts blue construction paper for the river while I help Emma identify which plastic dinosaur toys could reasonably pass for rainforest animals if you squint and have a limited understanding of zoology.

10:23 PM: First major crisis when we realize the spray paint we bought to create the background is definitely not quick-drying as promised. Emma has a complete meltdown because “Mrs. Peterson will know we did this last minute!” As if the hot glue strands connecting everything like spider webs weren’t already a dead giveaway.

10:47 PM: Jake, still awake and now fully invested in Project Rainforest, suggests we use the hair dryer to speed up the paint drying. This actually works but fills the kitchen with fumes that have us all slightly loopy. Lily, who should have been asleep hours ago, uses this opportunity to stick googly eyes on everything, including the trees.

11:16 PM: The hot glue gun claims its first victim when I attach my index finger to a piece of cardboard representing the forest floor. Mark laughs, then immediately apologizes when he sees my face. Smart man, part two.

The Detail Desperation

11:38 PM: Emma is now obsessively researching rainforest facts to make sure her project is “scientifically accurate.” She rejects three different animal placements because “that species wouldn’t be found in that layer of the canopy, Mom.”

Meanwhile, I’m hot-gluing green Easter basket grass to popsicle sticks and calling them “emergent layer trees.” No one can prove I’m wrong.

12:14 AM: Mark has fallen asleep at the table with a half-painted toucan in his hand. Jake is still surprisingly energetic, offering increasingly bizarre suggestions like “What if we added a tiny working waterfall?” Lily finally crashed on the living room floor surrounded by the googly eyes she didn’t manage to stick to the project.

Emma and I make executive decisions about which scientific details matter (labels, definitely) and which ones don’t (the precise spacing between understory plants). I silently thank the universe that she didn’t choose marine biology as her special interest.

The Final Push

1:22 AM: We’ve reached the “good enough” stage of project completion. Is it perfect? Absolutely not. Does it contain the required elements? Technically yes. Will Mrs. Peterson know it was completed the night before? Without a doubt.

Emma meticulously writes labels while I clean hot glue strings off every surface. Mark wakes up disoriented, wondering if we’re still on the same day. (Barely.)

1:45 AM: Project complete. The rainforest diorama sits on the counter to dry overnight, a monument to parental dedication, seventh-grade procrastination, and the miracle of adhesives.

Emma looks at it critically. “It’s not as good as Sophia’s will be. Her mom is an actual artist.”

I resist the urge to launch the entire diorama into orbit and instead say, “It shows what you know about ecosystems, which is the actual point.”

She hugs me and whispers, “Thanks, Mom. Sorry I forgot to tell you sooner.”

And just like that, I’m not even mad anymore. Exhausted, slightly high on glue fumes, but not mad.

The Morning After

7:30 AM: Emma proudly carries her diorama to the car, careful not to disturb the still-slightly-tacky glue on the toucan. Jake mournfully waves goodbye to his shoebox, now transformed into a miniature South American ecosystem. Lily insists the googly-eyed trees are her contribution.

Mark hands me an extra-large coffee and whispers, “Same time next project?”

“If she gives less than 24 hours notice on the next one, she’s on her own,” I reply, knowing full well I’ll be right back at the craft table for the next crisis.

3:45 PM: Emma bounds into the car after school. “Mrs. Peterson loved my diorama! She said the three-dimensional canopy layers were very creative!”

All the lost sleep suddenly feels worth it. I’m practically glowing with pride as Emma describes how her classmates were impressed by her work.

Then she drops the bomb: “Oh, and we need to make a traditional costume from another country by Monday for social studies. I picked Iceland.”

And just like that, the cycle begins again.

The Lessons Learned

Here’s what I’ve realized after approximately 47 emergency school projects over the years:

1. No matter how many times we check the planner/online portal/classroom newsletter, projects will always be surprise attacks.
2. The supplies you need will always be available only at stores that closed 20 minutes ago.
3. Your child will always remember crucial details (“it has to be a biome with precipitation under 10 inches annually”) only after you’ve purchased all the rainforest supplies.
4. The educational value isn’t in the diorama or poster or costume—it’s in the crisis management, problem-solving, and teamwork required to pull it off.
5. These projects aren’t testing our children’s knowledge—they’re testing parents’ commitment, creativity under pressure, and ability to function on minimal sleep.

So to all the other parents out there hot-gluing shoe boxes at midnight, I see you. I am you. We’re all in this together, armed with glue guns and fueled by caffeine, creating memories our kids will either cherish or use as material for future therapy sessions.

Either way, we’re showing up. And sometimes, that’s the biggest lesson of all.

Have you survived a last-minute school project catastrophe? Share your war stories in the comments below. Bonus points for photos of your masterpieces!

A Day in the Life: Tuesday’s Tornado (What Working From Home Really Looks Like)

Posted by Natasha Red on March 10, 2025

Everyone’s always asking what my schedule looks like as a working mom with three kids. I think they’re expecting some Pinterest-worthy routine with color-coded charts and perfectly timed transitions. Here’s yesterday’s reality check instead—an actual Tuesday in the Red household, unfiltered and unapologetic.

5:37 AM

Not 5:30. Not 5:45. Exactly 5:37 when my body decides sleep is optional. I don’t set an alarm anymore because my internal mom clock is permanently broken. I scroll through emails in the dark while Mark snores beside me, blissfully unaware that I’m mentally composing responses to my boss about yesterday’s marketing proposal.

6:15 AM

Shower. Actually wash my hair because it’s reached that “is it greasy or just second-day texture?” phase that can’t be publicly displayed. Mental note to order more dry shampoo.

6:43 AM

Start coffee. Pack lunches while coffee brews. Realize we’re out of the granola bars that Jake will exclusively eat. Panic slightly. Find a forgotten box in the back of the pantry. Crisis averted. Remember I’m supposed to bring snacks for Emma’s basketball practice later. Crisis reinstated.

7:00 AM

Wake the kids. Emma gets up with minimal drama. Jake requires three visits and the threat of removing his tablet privileges. Lily is already awake and has somehow covered herself in marker despite the fact that all markers are supposedly in a locked cabinet.

7:25 AM

Breakfast chaos. I make eggs that only Mark eats. Emma wants yogurt. Jake wants cereal but not THAT cereal. Lily wants whatever Jake has but then doesn’t actually eat it. I drink my coffee standing up while making sure everyone has what they need for the day. Permission slip? Signed. Library book? Found under the couch. Favorite water bottle? Located in the yard for reasons no one can explain.

8:02 AM

Everyone needs to be in the car NOW. Emma can’t find her other shoe. Jake suddenly remembers he has a diorama due today that he “told me about weeks ago” (he absolutely did not). Lily is now refusing to wear pants. Mark kisses me goodbye and leaves for his office with a sympathetic glance that says both “good luck” and “better you than me.”

8:17 AM

Drop-off at two different schools. Emma’s middle school first, where she practically jumps out of the moving vehicle because being seen with your mother is apparently a capital offense in 7th grade. Then to the elementary school where Jake walks in confidently with a diorama made of a cereal box, three markers, and determination. I count this as a parenting win.

8:40 AM

Preschool drop-off for Lily. She cries. I feel guilty. The teacher assures me she stops crying exactly 2.5 seconds after I leave. I choose to believe this is true.

9:00 AM

Finally at my desk in the home office. I have 30 minutes before my first meeting, which means I have 30 minutes to complete approximately 3 hours of work.

9:30 AM – 12:00 PM

Back-to-back Zoom meetings where I mute myself to yell at the dog who’s barking at the delivery person, unmute to give marketing insights, mute to curse at the washing machine that’s making that noise again, unmute to ask thoughtful questions about Q2 projections. No one suspects I’m not wearing proper pants.

12:15 PM

Lunch break. I make a real meal for myself like an adult: half an avocado toast and the crust from Lily’s sandwich that I saved from this morning because food waste is bad but mostly because I’m starving and it was already there.

1:00 PM – 2:30 PM

Deep work time. I actually get things done! Update the content calendar, write copy for the new campaign, and provide feedback on design mockups. I’m a productive professional who occasionally remembers to unmute before speaking.

2:45 PM

The school nurse calls. Jake has a stomachache. Is it a real stomachache or a “math test today” stomachache? I gamble and tell her to give him some water and see how he feels in 30 minutes. Mark is in meetings all afternoon, so if Jake needs pickup, it’s on me to rearrange my day.

3:15 PM

No follow-up call from the nurse. Either Jake is fine or he’s plotting his revenge on me for not rescuing him. I’ll find out at pickup.

3:30 PM

Final meeting of the day runs long. I’m nodding thoughtfully at my boss’s comments while simultaneously texting our babysitter to see if she can grab the kids because I’m going to be late.

4:10 PM

School pickup chaos, round two. Lily is delighted to see me. Jake informs me his stomachache was “definitely real” but mysteriously disappeared around recess. Emma slides into the car and immediately asks if we can stop for boba, which wasn’t part of today’s plan but suddenly feels like a battle not worth fighting.

4:45 PM

Home again with all children and boba tea. Emma has homework and an attitude. Jake needs help with spelling words. Lily wants me to watch her twirl. My laptop pings with slack messages I should probably address.

5:30 PM

Remember I need to make dinner. Stare blankly into the fridge even though I meal planned on Sunday. Consider ordering pizza but remember we did that yesterday. Pull out chicken and vegetables with renewed determination. Start cooking while refereeing a fight about whose turn it is on the tablet.

6:15 PM

Mark arrives home to chaos. Dinner is mostly edible. Jake picks out all the vegetables. Emma texts under the table despite the no-phones rule. Lily spills milk twice. We discuss our days in between reminding people about basic table manners that they somehow forget between every meal.

7:00 PM

Bath time for Lily, which means the bathroom will need to be classified as a disaster zone afterward. Mark handles this while I help Emma with her science project and quiz Jake on his spelling words.

8:00 PM

Bedtime routine begins. Teeth are brushed with varying degrees of thoroughness. Books are read. Water is fetched. Additional water is denied. Monsters are checked for. Promises are made about tomorrow’s activities that I will likely regret.

8:45 PM

Lily is finally asleep. Jake is reading in bed. Emma has negotiated an extra 30 minutes because of a “really important” social studies assignment that I’m 90% sure involves TikTok.

9:15 PM

All children contained in their rooms, if not asleep. Mark and I collapse on the couch and stare at each other. We should discuss finances or vacation plans or his mother’s upcoming visit. Instead, we scroll through Netflix for 20 minutes before settling on a show we’re both too tired to follow.

10:30 PM

Remember I didn’t switch the laundry to the dryer. Do that now. Pack tomorrow’s lunches. Set up the coffee maker. Remember I was supposed to order more printer ink. Add it to the never-ending list.

11:00 PM

Fall into bed. Check my calendar for tomorrow. Three meetings, one doctor appointment for Jake, and Emma needs her basketball uniform washed. Set alarm for 5:30 AM, knowing full well I’ll wake up at 5:37 AM regardless.

11:45 PM

Almost asleep when Lily appears at the bedside, wanting water/hugs/to discuss her future career as a unicorn. Mark sleeps through this somehow. I take her back to bed, lie down with her for “just five minutes” and wake up there at 1 AM with a crick in my neck.

1:05 AM

Stumble back to my own bed. Fall asleep making a mental list of all the things I didn’t get done today that will be added to tomorrow’s impossible list.

And that’s a typical Tuesday. Glamorous, right? No life-changing productivity hacks, no secrets to having it all—just the messy reality of trying to be everywhere and everything for everyone while occasionally remembering to brush my own teeth.

So if your day looked anything like mine, know you’re not alone. We’re all just making it up as we go, surviving on coffee and those tiny moments when everyone is briefly happy at the same time.

What does your typical day look like? Drop a comment below—misery loves company, especially when it comes with a sense of humor.

Natasha Red is perpetually tired but somehow still functioning. She writes about the chaos of working motherhood while actively living it. Follow her for unfiltered reality and the occasional useful tip she stumbled upon by accident.

The Working Mom’s Weekend: When ‘Time Off’ Is Anything But

Posted by Natasha Red on March 8, 2025

Let’s talk about weekends. Remember when weekends meant relaxation? Spontaneous brunches? Maybe a movie or sleeping in past 7 AM? Yeah, me neither. Those memories have been replaced by what I now call “workends” – those precious 48 hours when I don’t have my paying job but somehow work harder than I do all week.

Here’s what my “time off” actually looked like this weekend. Spoiler alert: there was no time off.

Saturday Morning: The Sports Shuffle

6:15 AM: Woken up by Lily jumping on my stomach asking if it’s “soccer day.” It is, in fact, soccer day – along with basketball day and swimming lesson day. Mark and I lie in bed negotiating who takes which kid where like we’re dividing assets in a divorce.

7:30 AM: Making breakfast while simultaneously filling water bottles, finding shin guards, and explaining to Jake why he can’t wear flip-flops to basketball practice. Emma emerges from her room looking like she’s been awake for hours, fully dressed in her team uniform, and asks why we’re running late.

8:45 AM: Drop Emma at basketball. Check the email I got from her coach last night and realize I was supposed to bring snacks for the entire team today. Panic, text five other moms asking if anyone can cover, then drive to the nearest grocery store while Jake complains that we’re going to be late for his practice.

9:30 AM: Jake is late to basketball. I blame traffic. The coach gives me that look that says, “You’re that mom.” I want to explain about the forgotten snacks and the missing shin guards and how I’ve been awake since a toddler used my internal organs as a trampoline, but instead I just smile apologetically and retreat to sit with the other parents, none of whom seem as frazzled as I feel.

10:15 AM: Leave Jake’s practice early to deliver emergency oranges and granola bars to Emma’s game. Mark texts that Lily is having a meltdown at soccer because her sock seam “feels funny.” I suggest turning the sock inside out, which apparently makes me a genius because it works.

12:30 PM: All three kids collected from their respective sports. Everyone is hungry NOW and can’t possibly wait the 15 minutes it takes to get home. Stop for drive-through where we spend $47 on food that disappears in minutes.

Saturday Afternoon: The Chore Marathon

1:30 PM: Home again. I survey the disaster that is our house and make the tactical decision to ignore it temporarily because Lily needs a nap, Jake has homework, and Emma needs to be driven to her friend’s house for a study session that I strongly suspect involves TikTok and zero studying.

2:45 PM: With Lily finally asleep and Jake grudgingly working on math, I start the weekend cleaning frenzy. Three loads of laundry, two bathrooms, and one kitchen later, I realize I haven’t checked my work email since yesterday and feel a twinge of anxiety.

4:00 PM: Quick email check turns into 45 minutes of putting out small work fires while standing at the kitchen counter. Jake interrupts every 7 minutes with homework questions that make me question whether I ever actually learned fifth-grade math.

5:30 PM: Mark returns with Emma and starts dinner while I finish folding laundry and FaceTime my mom, who asks if we’re “doing anything fun this weekend.” I laugh so hard I wake up Lily, who is cranky from her too-long nap and now won’t sleep tonight.

Saturday Evening: The Social Obligation

7:00 PM: We’re supposed to be at our neighbors’ house for dinner by now. Instead, we’re still at home where Jake suddenly remembers a permission slip that needs signing, printing, and scanning for a field trip on Monday. Emma can’t find her “good” jeans, and Lily has decided that she will only wear her swimsuit to dinner, nothing else.

7:45 PM: Arrive at neighbors’ house with semi-presentable children and a store-bought dessert I’m pretending I had time to make. Their house is immaculate with white furniture. They have one perfectly behaved child who is already in pajamas and will be asleep by 8:30. I immediately spill red wine on myself.

10:30 PM: Home again. Children overtired and wound up from socializing. Bedtime routine takes twice as long as usual. Mark falls asleep on Lily’s floor while reading her third bedtime story.

11:45 PM: Finally alone. Consider watching a show or reading a book or having an actual conversation with Mark, who has relocated to our bed. Instead, I spend 30 minutes meal planning for the week and making an online grocery order. Fall asleep with my phone on my face.

Sunday Morning: The Illusion of Leisure

7:00 AM: Jake and Lily are up and have decided to “make breakfast” which means every mixing bowl we own is now dirty and there’s pancake batter on the ceiling. I’m actually impressed by their initiative until I step in syrup.

9:30 AM: Mark takes all three kids to the park so I can have “me time.” I spend it cleaning the kitchen, finishing the laundry, and prepping lunches for the week ahead. I also shower without interruption, which feels so luxurious I almost cry.

11:00 AM: Family returns from the park. Jake has a scraped knee, Emma is mad because she’s too old for parks, and Lily has found a collection of rocks she insists are “special” and need to be washed immediately in the sink I just cleaned.

Sunday Afternoon: The Birthday Party Circuit

12:30 PM: Emma has a friend’s birthday party at the mall. Drop her off with a gift we bought weeks ago but I forgot to wrap, so it’s in a Target bag with a card Emma filled out in the car.

1:15 PM: Take Jake and Lily to a different birthday party at a trampoline park where I spend $25 on socks with grips that we will lose before the next trampoline party. Make small talk with parents I know from school while monitoring Lily, who believes she’s invincible and tries to do flips despite not being able to do a somersault.

3:30 PM: Both parties ending. Mark picks up Emma while I handle the extraction of Jake and Lily, who are now sweaty, overtired, and have acquired goodie bags full of candy and tiny toys designed specifically to be stepped on in the middle of the night.

Sunday Evening: The Week Ahead Looms

5:00 PM: Sunday dinner is always a proper family meal in theory. In reality, it’s a hodgepodge of leftovers while I quiz Emma on her spelling words, sign Jake’s reading log that he “forgot” about all weekend, and try to find Lily’s favorite stuffed animal that’s necessary for sleep and has mysteriously vanished.

6:30 PM: Bath time for the younger two while Emma showers. Realize we’re out of clean towels despite doing laundry all weekend. Use beach towels and make a mental note to do more laundry tomorrow, somehow, between work and life.

7:45 PM: Kids in bed earlier than usual because everyone’s exhausted. Mark and I collapse on the couch and look at each other. “Productive weekend?” he asks. I laugh until I’m crying, or maybe I’m just crying.

8:30 PM: Spend an hour prepping for the work week. Check the family calendar and realize we have dentist appointments, a teacher conference, and Emma’s science project due all within the next five days. Consider calling in sick to work for the rest of my life.

10:00 PM: Finally in bed. Set alarm for 5:30 AM. Mentally run through all the things I didn’t get done this weekend and add them to the never-ending list in my head. Wonder if other moms feel this constant sense of falling behind or if they’ve discovered some secret to having it all together that I missed.

11:00 PM: Just as I’m falling asleep, remember I forgot to switch the laundry to the dryer. Again. Decide it can wait until morning. Everything can wait until morning, except sleep. Sleep can’t wait another minute.

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And that, friends, is the reality of a working mom’s weekend. No spa days. No binge-watching Netflix. Just a 48-hour marathon of meeting everyone else’s needs while trying to prepare for the week ahead.

But you know what? Despite the chaos, there were moments—Jake figuring out his math problem and beaming with pride, Lily’s face lighting up when she jumped higher than ever at the trampoline park, Emma actually hugging me goodbye at her friend’s party instead of being embarrassed by my existence. Those tiny slivers of joy somehow make the exhaustion worth it.

So here’s to another week ahead. May your coffee be strong, your children’s drama be minimal, and may someone else remember to switch the laundry to the dryer.

What does your “workend” look like? Comment below – we’re all in this together!

Natasha Red somehow writes this blog between the hours of 11 PM and never-getting-enough-sleep o’clock. When she’s not juggling work, kids, and the illusion of having a clean house, she can be found hiding in her car eating chocolate she doesn’t have to share.