To-Go Mugs, Gut Checks, and the Quiet Poetry of Coming Home

Just got back from camping with my husband. I should say “with my husband and Bean,” but it never really feels like we travel with her. More like she leads the way, and we, soft-footed and perpetually under-caffeinated, stumble after her—carrying the bags, meds, toys, and diapers. All the things.

It was fun, yes. Bean did amazing. She walked the campground like she’d inherited it from generations of nomadic warriors—little feet determined, her steps oddly regal. The kind of posture that says, watch me, even though she never speaks.

Now I’m back. The coffee here tastes stale, but familiar. Today it’s in a to-go mug I brought from home, still warm enough to feel like a small kindness. No chipped ceramic comfort this time. I’m headed back out soon, taking my almost 18-year-old thrifting. I packed a book, too—just in case I get tired and want to disappear for a few pages in the car.

Today, it doesn’t feel like Saturday. But I’ll take it.

Also, I’m starting a 21-day “diet” again—because why the fuck not. A tiny attempt at structure in a life that defies schedules. Maybe it sticks. Maybe it doesn’t. But today, it feels like momentum.

Also? I did all the laundry in record time after getting back. I didn’t see that coming. Some small miracle of focus and adrenaline, I guess. Like my body knew chaos was coming and thought—let’s give her one win.

Almost 18 and Already Gone

Thrifting with my almost 18-year-old felt like walking a tightrope over a chasm of nostalgia. The word “thrifting” feels like a costume we both wear to pretend nothing’s changing. She collects clothes that once would’ve needed my approval, and now doesn’t even wait for it. I watch her sift through racks of clothes like she’s mapping her escape from our shared house, our shared past. Though it’s oddly familiar and ironic that the clothes she is choosing would have once belonged in my teenage Y2K closet.  Full circle.

She’s beautiful. Independent. Already tilting out of my orbit.

I say something about the price of a vintage hoodie. She smirks—Mom, it’s five dollars. And in that moment, I’m the relic. Outdated. Faded. But still here, hanging on the rack.

Sleep is a Fiction We All Pretend Exists

Hubby is home with Bean. “God bless him,” I mutter to myself, knowing full well what kind of morning he’s had. He was up with her every hour. Again. Welcome to my world.

It’s not a complaint. Just a quiet acknowledgment of the unspoken martyrdom that comes with being the default parent. The one who knows the difference between a bout of terrible gastritis and a nightmare based on the way the bed creaks.

I wonder if he’ll make it till lunch before he folds. Not because he’s weak—but because he still treats exhaustion like a temporary condition. I gave up that fantasy years ago.

There’s a pile of clean clothes still in the dryer. I leave them there. Maybe forever. Maybe just until someone notices they’re all wearing the same three outfits.

Bean, the Boss of the Pines

I think about Bean again. Her little legs pumping across the uneven gravel of the campground like it owed her something. Like she was on a mission no one else was brave enough to join.

Other campers stared. They always do. Pitt Hopkins isn’t something you wear on the outside, but it bleeds into her gait, her hands, her volume. She flaps, she hums, she moves with a rhythm that doesn’t apologize.

She is a symphony of interruption.

She is joy that doesn’t need permission.

And for once—out there, among the trees and burnt marshmallows—I didn’t mind the stares. I even smiled at one. Not the brittle, polite kind. The real kind. The see her kind.

The Undercurrent of Everything

The fridge is humming like it has secrets. The calendar is hanging crooked again. These are the things that tether me.

The new dishwasher blinks quietly in the corner now. No longer counting down to nothing. Just doing its job. Silently. Competently. The upgrade we didn’t know we needed, reflecting back the small mercies of modern life.

The grocery list I started in Sharpie and then abandoned halfway through. The silence between texts. The laundry that smells like camp.

And me, standing in the middle of it all, still barefoot from this morning, wondering if anyone notices how much quieter I’ve become.

Home Isn’t Rest, But It’s Real

Coming home isn’t always physically restful, but it’s honest. And it’s still peaceful. It’s where I shed the pretense of being “on” and return to the ache I’ve learned to carry like a second spine.

I’m tired in the bones, but sharp in the mind. The contradiction of motherhood, of special needs parenting, of living inside a body that never quite gets to pause.

Bean is laughing in the other room. Hubby is trying to feed her lunch. Something crashes. No one yells.

I sip my reheated coffee, wrap my fingers around the travel cup, and think:

This life is messy.

And hard.

And mine.

And somehow, it’s still beautiful.