It’s 2 am. Again.
Not because I’m writing a book or coming home from a fun girls’ night. I’m awake because I’m having a hot flash that could melt the siding off my house.
You know, just your average middle-of-the-night full-body spontaneous combustion. A special gift from perimenopause — because 100-degree North Carolina heat and humidity that feels like Satan’s armpit apparently weren’t enough.
And the best part? My brain — useless and foggy all day — suddenly decides to get crystal clear at 2 am. During the day, I wander around like a zombie forgetting why I even walked into the kitchen. But at 2 am? Genius-level focus. I’m rewriting my business plan, mentally meal prepping, and planning a solo vacation (with wine, no one under 25 allowed).
Then there are the boys.
Two teenagers I love with my whole hormonal, exhausted heart. They’re 98% sass, 2% deodorant, and 100% incapable of finding anything that isn’t right in front of their faces.
My husband? My poor, clueless husband. Tiptoeing around like he’s living with a rabid raccoon. He never knows if I’m going to snap, burst into tears, or beg him to hold me while I rage about the dryer shrinking my favorite t-shirt (again). His safest line? “Do you want me to pick up dinner?” Smart man.
And the only other females in this house? My dogs. Who spend 73% of the day aggressively licking their own lady parts.
This is my sisterhood.
Boy moms don’t get Pinterest-perfect moments. We get socks everywhere. Whiffs of Axe body spray where they don’t belong. Endless requests for rides, money, and protein. So much protein.
Conversations?
Me: “How was practice?”
Teen Son: “Mid.”
Me: “Anything new happen?”
Teen Son: “Nah.”
Me: googling boarding schools in Switzerland
Teen boy sass is a special flavor. Dry, understated, and yet it cuts deep. A casual “k” or “sure” hits harder than a Shakespearean insult.
Meanwhile, I’m just trying to survive the emotional and physical circus that is perimenopause — mood swings, night sweats, sleep deprivation, and the constant question: “Am I doing this right?” All while serving as house manager, therapist, chauffeur, chef, referee, and walking credit card.
And let’s not forget the bladder betrayal. After birthing two giant-headed babies, a sneeze is no longer just a sneeze — it’s a gamble. I cross my legs, clench, and pray to the pelvic floor gods every single time.
Parenting books don’t tell you this part.
They also don’t mention that someday you’ll pack up that big-headed baby for college and feel like your chest is cracking open. One minute, I’m ready to pop champagne and reclaim the bathroom. The next, I’m sobbing into his t-shirts wondering if he knows not to put metal in the microwave.
So here I am. In sweat-soaked pajamas. Typing on my phone at 2 am while my brain does laps around the concept of peace.
But you know what? I’m still here. Still showing up. Still making jokes through the madness. Still parenting, even when it makes me want to scream into a throw pillow.
If you’re a mom navigating perimenopause, teenage attitude, and the thousand invisible jobs you carry every day… you’re not alone.
We’re messy, fierce, and figuring it out together.
Now go pour yourself an iced coffee, tie up the messy bun, and keep going.
Even if it’s at 2 in the f*cking morning.
Tell me — what’s your late-night survival moment? I’d love to hear.
