“Boys!” I shouted instinctively. “Where’s my chair?”
My younger son, Max, who’s 10, responded, “It’s in my blanket fort! I neeeed it for my fort!”
Let’s unpack this. When I stride toward my desk, I’m laser-focused. I’m ready to tackle bills, get work done, or write something brilliant. I’ve pulled myself away from whatever captivating distraction was calling my name (seriously, have you all heard of thredUP?), and I mean business as I approach that desk.
To add to the mix, I’m the big sister in this household. Sure, I’m also a 43-year-old mom to two rambunctious boys, but deep down, I still carry the essence of that big sister who just wanted to be left alone with a good book, to have her belongings untouched, and to ask, why are you even in my room?! Ugh!
When my kids were younger, my big sister tendencies didn’t surface much. They were small, helpless, and mostly glued to my lap or in my line of sight. Yes, they did annoying things, but they didn’t rearrange furniture or sneak my stuff away to secret hideouts. As they’ve grown stronger and more capable of wreaking havoc, that 14-year-old version of me has resurfaced—and she is not pleased.
“Son, while I understand your blanket fort needs that chair, I need it for my backside so I can pay bills and finish my work. Please retrieve that chair and remember, no borrowing furniture from my room. That’s not acceptable.”
Interestingly, all the other chairs in our house were also in that fort, but apparently, my little office chair was the linchpin of its entire structure. By asking him to return it, I somehow became the worst mother in the universe.
And you know what? I’m okay with that. Someone has to take on that title. If it’s me, that’s just fine. At least it’s not you!
I also discovered that my free weights were essential to this intricate fort setup. Yes, I found this out when I tried to lift them—because, let’s face it, they’re not exactly heavy. They’re colorful and capped at a maximum of 8 pounds, ideal for fort support.
And don’t even get me started on my favorite beach towel. That towel is no longer mine; it belongs to the consistently wet child who’s always wrapped in it. I even bought a new one, adorned with bright pink flowers, thinking it would deter my boys. Turns out, they couldn’t care less! Now we have two oversized towels—perfect for our needs!
Recently, while on a business trip, my husband took our eldest, Noah, to get his learner’s permit. He then shared a snapshot on social media of our little guy behind the wheel of my car.
My car. Being driven. By him.
“Way to go, buddy! Super proud of you!” I texted Noah that evening.
“Thanks for taking him. But why on earth is he driving your car?” I messaged my husband, who left me hanging. I suspect they were both in the blanket fort—or maybe joyriding in my car.
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In summary, my big sister self has made a comeback, and she’s navigating the chaos of raising boys who seem to think my belongings are communal property. Somehow, I’m managing to balance motherhood, work, and a hint of nostalgia for the days when I could read in peace.