This Life, Scattered and Waiting

There’s a deck of cards on the kitchen table.

Corners bent, one slightly torn, creases feathering through the paper like tiny lightning bolts. They’ve been played with—really played with—the kind of wear that only comes from laughter, groaning, last-minute rule changes, and tiny betrayals over UNO reverses. The kind of wear that matters.

The big kids finally want to play card games with me. First thing in the morning, last thing after dinner, and sometimes in the soft quiet between naps and dishes. It feels like being let back into a club I didn’t realize I’d been kicked out of when they turned thirteen and their world expanded beyond my kitchen.

Now, we gather again, palms full of jacks and sevens and declarations of war. They roll their eyes when I talk trash. I let them win, sometimes. Other times I don’t. It’s wonderful. The cards are wearing out the way good memories should.

Meanwhile, Emy’s potty training saga has become its own subplot—chaotic and oddly poetic. There’s a whole method I’m experimenting with, a rhythm we haven’t quite mastered. Rituals and voices and lots of clapping. The kind of learning that comes in fits and starts. Some days it feels like we’re both getting it. Other days, she sits on the floor in front of the toilet, laughing, and I sit on the edge of the tub trying to remember if I brushed my teeth.

It’s strange how something so small, so specific, can shape an entire day. There’s a quiet pride in her eyes when she gets it right. A little light that says she knows this matters. And I clap with her, every time, because milestones deserve an audience, no matter how many times we circle back to them.

Trying to get healthier for her, too. For all of them. But mostly for her. For the days ahead, the energy she’ll require, the me I want to still be ten years from now. I had a plan. A decent one. But then French bread entered the room like a long-lost lover. Warm, golden, unapologetically perfect. I didn’t stand a chance.

I chewed slowly, deliberately, as if savoring was a kind of resistance. It wasn’t. I devoured it. And it was worth it. The smoothie in the fridge—green, smug—will be there tomorrow. Possibly judging me.

Monkeyface got her driver’s license. That’s her nickname, by the way. Always has been. She’s out in the world now—music up, windows down, driving like freedom was made just for her. It’s wild to watch. Like seeing your own heartbeat walking around outside your body with a Spotify playlist.

She texts me from errands: “Got your creamer :)” and it hits me harder than it should. She’s remembering me while discovering herself. That balance. That sweet spot between autonomy and attachment. I’m learning to hold her loosely now, like a kite with just enough string.

And Gabriel. My quiet one. He watched Emy for two and a half hours. Fed her, changed her, took her to the potty. I came home and no one was in distress. Not even me. Emy didn’t ask for me once. She was content.

He didn’t make a big deal out of it. Didn’t present it as a favor or a burden. Just stepped in like it was his role. Like he was made for it. And for those hours, he was.

Something about that moment cracked me open. Watching them in sync. Realizing I wasn’t essential. That’s supposed to be the goal, right? Raising them to need you less. Still, it’s bittersweet. Like everything else.

There’s been a quiet shift in me lately. I’ve stopped trying to defend myself to people who are committed to misunderstanding me. Letting them talk, rewrite, twist. Letting them be wrong.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about it online. About how peaceful it is to stop explaining. How liberating it feels to let the story they’re telling about you fall flat because it no longer holds weight. For the people who really see me, I’ve never had to prove a thing. And the ones who don’t? I’m no longer offering them front-row seats to my life.

It’s not bitterness. It’s boundaries. And it feels like exhaling.

Another thing I’ve noticed: my emotions no longer erupt like they used to. There’s space now. Room to think. To sit with discomfort without letting it rot.

I feel things. Deeply. But I don’t let them dictate me. The triggers still come—but they’re softer now, like waves. And I let them pass. In and out. I stay grounded.

Age has brought a strange grace. But it’s also taken things.

Like coffee. God, coffee.

I used to write love letters to my French press. Now I’m writing eulogies. It gives me headaches. The kind that settle behind my eyes and refuse to leave until I admit betrayal. I’ve tested it, tracked it, tried to deny it. But it’s true. I might be too old for coffee.

Alcohol left me quietly in my thirties. Now coffee is packing its bags, and I feel betrayed by my own body. There’s something so sad about realizing the things that once fueled you now deplete you.

And yet, here I am. Sipping herbal tea. Staring at my cupboard like it might give me answers.

The day hums on. Laundry waits on the couch. Not judging—just existing. Like everything else in this house. Unfinished, but held. I’ve learned to love the evidence of life more than the illusion of order.

My planner is half-filled. The fridge is half-stocked. My thoughts? Half-formed at best. But my kids? They’re full. Of stories, of laughter, of momentum. They are full of me.

It’s late now. The house has softened. Everyone is tucked in, or pretending to be. The dishwasher sings its nightly lullaby. I finish my tea.

The deck of cards still sits on the table. Scattered. Waiting. Like memory. Like invitation.

This life—unfolding, imperfect, undone—it is mine.

And somehow, it’s enough.