Keep Driving

“Yeah, I’m not their mom. I’m the ride-or-die with a Starbucks app and no shame about cake pops before noon.”

This week, I got my girl back. Sis is finally feeling better after two straight weeks of viral warfare and high-level emotional combat. And no, she wasn’t some weak, snuggly little sick baby—she was an unhinged dictator with a fever and zero respect for peace treaties. But now the fog’s lifting. Her logic is finally starting to click into place, and we’ve returned to something that resembles a rhythm. Our system. Our weird little routine. It’s held together by crumbs, cold brew, and me pretending I know what I’m doing. Classic Auntie vibes.

Lately, the kids have been obsessed with riding around. We haven’t been hitting up playgrounds or indoor play spots, but not because I was worried for them. Oh no. I was protecting everyone else. These two were walking Petri dishes—tiny, adorable biohazards. So we stayed in the car. We cruised. We kept our germs contained and our sanity barely intact.

Bubs has now fully committed to the bit. He’ll stand at the baby gate and declare “car” and “cake pop” like it’s a hostage demand. And honestly? He gets results. The kid’s smart—1.5 years old and already following instructions like a champ. “Bubs, you forgot your shoes.” Boom. He’s off, doing his bouncy little run to the stairs and waiting for me to open the gate like he’s been summoned to greatness. We grab the shoes. We hit the road. And of course we get cake pops. I’m not the mom—I’m the fun one. I’m allowed to bribe.

I let him sit in the driver’s seat in the garage the other day and he just about ascended. “Drive,” he said, gripping the wheel with the reverence of a man who understands destiny. His eyes lit up like he could already feel the wind in his hair and the open road calling his name. He asked for more. Of course he did.

So yeah. For now? We ride. We cake pop. We air out our germs and keep the windows down. It’s not groundbreaking, but it’s exactly what we need.