Booty Shakes & Blisters

This week’s been brought to you by the letter H—Hand, Foot, and Hell. The kids are crusty, cranky, and contagious, and I’m operating on whatever’s below empty. I haven’t slept properly since 2009. I’ve tried everything: magnesium, hydration, protein, meditation, sacrificing my screen time like a saint. I even bought new pillows that feel like clouds… from hell. Turns out doing all the right things just makes me tired with better posture.

Still, I woke up today weirdly energized. No idea how—I must’ve accidentally unlocked a cheat code in my sleep. I walked in like a yoga auntie with a vengeance. “Come at me, tantrums.”

And Sis does. Full swing to Bubby’s body. BAM! No TV. No discussion. Just consequences, baby.

“You don’t like it? Don’t deck your brother. Go play with literally anything else. You’ve got toys, crafts, a sock drawer. Get weird.”

She does not get weird. She gets pissed. I hold the line. We blast the booty-shaking playlist and rage-dance the feelings out. No one can stay mad when “Cha Cha Slide” hits.

But dancing with a virus? Not sustainable. Their tiny bodies crash like overheated Roombas. Their feet are covered in little blistery landmines. It’s tragic and gross. So we slather them in Aquaphor like we’re basting a Thanksgiving turkey, slap on some socks, and call it toddler spa day.

Cue the toddler meltdown music. But the thing is, when your body’s not up for a good time, your mind sure as hell is. So I switch gears and become the human jungle gym. Because when kids need to go somewhere, there’s no waiting for a cab, babe. I’m the Lyft.

Sis, who normally shows affection by handing me random objects (yesterday it was a lone googly eye and a Cheerio making intense eye contact under the couch), curls up beside me and wraps both arms around my torso like I’m the damn little spoon. She whispers, “I just love you.”

I short-circuited. Heart melted. Brain gone. Scene.

Meanwhile, Bubs refuses to touch the hardwood like it’s lava. He was not about that shower life until I handed him the hose. Then he sprayed his little feet, grinned like a baby koala fresh off a nap, and whispered “Mmmm.” It was healing. It was perfect. Like spa day meets water park for sad toddlers.

This week, I’ve been the dance floor, the couch cushion, the mattress, the sidewalk, the emotional support bus. If these kids need to go somewhere, it’s on my hip, my lap, or my actual spine. I’m not just Auntie. I’m public transportation with pockets full of stickers and applesauce pouches.

And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for anything—except maybe a full night’s sleep and a prescription for “do not disturb.”