💕 “Me Too, Girl — Me Too!”
Hey there, shug! I sure hope these little blogs feel like a big ol’ hug and a good belly laugh — because Lord knows, sometimes we all need both. Being a mama (or a step-mama) isn’t for the faint of heart. And if you’re anything like me, you’re somewhere in that pre-menopausal twilight zone where your body’s confused, your brain’s fried, and 40 is chasing you like it’s got a personal vendetta.
Life is busy, chaotic, and — let’s just be honest — half the time we’re hanging on by a messy bun and a cup of coffee that’s been reheated three times. And don’t even get me started on that question — “What’s for dinner?” I swear, if one more person in this house asks me that, I might start serving air sandwiches and invisible side dishes.
When I was little, my mama — bless her heart — made everything from scratch. Perfect biscuits, homemade casseroles, pies that could win awards. She made it look easy. Now here I am, asking my own kids to pull something out of the freezer for dinner, and wouldn’t you know it — they “forgot.” And that’s the exact moment it hit me: my mama wasn’t being dramatic all those years. She needed me to thaw the chicken because she was just as tired and frazzled as I am now!
Some nights, I sit there wondering, “How on earth did I get here?” I thought by 40 I’d have it all figured out. Spoiler alert — I don’t. I see those picture-perfect families at church or the cheer moms who seem to have it all together, and I think, well, aren’t they just walking Pinterest boards? But truth be told, they’re probably standing in their kitchens right now, fussing because their kid left every cabinet door open and forgot their uniform.
We’re all just doing our best, trying not to lose it before bedtime. And somewhere along the way, we forget that we’re living the life we once prayed for. It’s messy, exhausting, and sometimes flat-out ridiculous — but it’s ours.
Now let’s talk about being a step-mama, because Lord have mercy, that’s a whole different rodeo. Loving somebody else’s child like your own is both beautiful and terrifying. You’ve got no say in anything, but you’re expected to love them unconditionally. And heaven forbid you treat them differently — you’d be the villain of the story faster than you can say “bless your heart.” It’s walking a tightrope in high heels, and it’ll wear your brain out daily.
I want to be a good mama, step-mama, wife, friend — all the things — but sometimes, I’m just grateful everyone’s still alive, somewhat clean, and where they’re supposed to be. Some days, that’s victory enough.
I’m a church-going Southern gal who loves the Lord, but let me tell you, I am far from perfect. I’ve let a few four-letter words fly when I stub my toe or when I have to deal with my husband’s ex-wife (though bless it, I still pray for that heifer daily). I may not fit in perfectly with the church ladies, but I keep showing up — messy hair, tired heart, coffee in hand — because that’s what matters most.
So if you’re out there feeling like you’re the only one barely hanging on, you’re not. You’re my kind of gal. You’re real, you’re human, and you’re doing just fine. Come on in here, laugh a little, roll your eyes at the chaos, and say it with me — “Me too, girl… me too.”
Here’s to surviving the crazy, loving through the chaos, and laughing at the messes — because we all need a place where we can be ourselves and still feel seen.