The Week That Tests You, But Wine and Couch Nights Save You

It’s Monday night, and somehow, I’m already tired for the week. Like deep in my bones tired. Tuesday and Wednesday haven’t even started, but they’re already lurking around the corner like two smug, judgmental stepsisters just waiting to trip me up. Thursday? She’s the beacon of hope—because she whispers promises of couch time, wine, and just a little space to breathe.

But here we are. Monday.

I’m juggling a thousand things—work, school updates, teenagers asking for rides, forgotten projects, random group chats, laundry that may or may not be clean, and dinner that’s being met with groans before it even hits the table. I pass the bathroom and gag (who knew Axe body spray and humidity could create such a toxic cloud?), trip over the dog, and stare at the sink full of dishes like they personally offended me.

You ever look at a pile of dirty dishes and start narrating your frustration like it’s a Netflix drama? “This... this is where she lost her grip on reality. Over a coffee mug left right next to the dishwasher.”

No one else at home seems concerned. But I see you, dishes. I see you.

So, I pour the wine. I grab the couch blanket. I choose the comfiest, IDGAF shirt I own and settle in for some senseless TV. That’s how I cope. That’s how Monday ends—with a side of sarcasm and a glass of red.

Tuesday and Wednesday show up with no chill.

They’re not even pretending to be helpful. Between school carpools, endless reminders to submit assignments, chasing down missing chargers, and mediating passive-aggressive sibling bickering—these two days are straight-up disrespectful.

Hump day? Ha. More like “Who the hell scheduled everything today?” day. I mean, I love my kids, but how do they always need to be somewhere at the exact same time in opposite directions?

Evenings blur together. My hubby and I try to watch our show, but neither of us remembers what happened in the last five episodes. We’re basically just zoning out with snacks, trying not to fall asleep before 9 PM.

Thursday arrives. A light appears at the end of the tunnel.

Weekend plans with my bestie are locked in. Restaurant: picked. Music: mandatory. Childcare: miraculously secured. It’s all coming together... until I remember it’s still Thursday and I still have to adult.

Dinner turns into a negotiation. One kid doesn’t “do broccoli,” the other suddenly discovered a peanut allergy to something that was totally fine last week. My husband steps in with the rescue plan: “Eat your veggies and we’ll go to Carvel.” Boom. Dinner devoured.

They leave, and I’m finally alone with a sink full of dishes, a glass of 1924 wine, and Beat Bobby Flay. A fitting show, considering I’ve basically given up on trying to make meals they’ll enjoy. My culinary reputation now consists of ordering solid takeout and heating frozen waffles without burning them. #Winning

Then it’s Friday. Blessed, chaotic, takeout-saving Friday.

Of course, the kids’ teachers clearly want us to suffer, so they unload a weekend’s worth of homework right before I planned to mentally check out. But this is not the weekend for it. I have plans. Real, grown-up, wear-cute-shoes plans.

So, we cram as much homework as possible into Friday night, because that’s how we protect Saturday’s vibe. We realize mid-project that we’re missing crucial supplies: poster board, glitter, glue that actually glues. I mutter something about how Michaels should offer curbside service for emotionally drained parents.

But my husband saves the night with his creative brain and his ability to handle math without crying. We tag-team. We survive. We make it through another week of organized chaos. It’s a mess—but it’s our mess. And somehow, in the middle of it all, there’s still laughter, teamwork, and that soft feeling of gratitude under the exhaustion.

Would I change it? Not a chance.

There’s beauty in the madness. There’s magic in those moments on the couch, the sarcastic glances across the dinner table, the Friday night teamwork, and the Saturday night dreams.

This life? It’s loud, exhausting, and utterly imperfect—but it’s mine.

And I wouldn’t change a thing. 💋