Cheerios

Motherhood, mess, and feral affection

Hey, fellow snack survivors and wild-child wranglers, this one’s for us.

You know those Cheerios that mysteriously appear everywhere?
Yeah. In my bed.
In my bra.
In my soul.

They multiply like tiny confetti of chaos, alongside regrets and goldfish crackers while a small human scales the counter to eat shredded cheese straight from the bag.

I used to have thoughts.
Now I have snack requests, sticky hands in my pockets, and the emotional stability of a juice box.

My children?
Feral.
Sweet.
Drenched in yogurt and declarations of love.
They scream “MOM” like it’s a magic word,
and sometimes—somehow—it is.

Because despite the crumbs, the crusts I don’t eat, and the cartoons I can quote by heart, I would burn the world for their giggle. I would die for their nap time. I would kill for silence, and then cry when it’s quiet.

This is motherhood:
an altar made of cereal dust,
a love so wild it throws bananas at your head, and then asks to snuggle.

I never feel like I’m doing it right.
But every day,
they love me anyway,
exactly like I am:
undone, exhausted,
and somehow still the hero
in a Cheerio crown.

Stay Weird. Love you. Mean it.
—No Apologies Just Stories.