Evelyn took the video game controller out of my hands and replaced it with her own.
“We’re swapping, that way you can’t yell at me anymore,” she said.
I wasn’t yelling—just repeating myself at a volume somewhere between “I need a manager” and “something’s clearly amiss” at a restaurant table.
Which, in my defense, it was. She wasn’t getting the pasta into the boiling water fast enough.
Overcooked 2 is our newfound family game of choice. It’s chaos—delightful, heart-racing chaos. Fires break out mid-sear, chicken burns to a crisp, and the controller vibrates so hard it practically screams, “Everything’s on fire!”
During our five-minute debrief-slash-stress-relief intermission, I asked Evelyn what role she wanted next. “Cleaning plates,” she said.
But when the timer ticks down to thirty seconds and Dave and I are frantically plating and delivering orders, Evelyn’s up—jumping, squealing, cheering us on to three stars like it’s the Olympics.
It’s her birthday tomorrow—the big 0-6. We’re keeping it simple: a trip to Barnes & Noble so she can pick out a toy and a book.
I’m happy with that decision, especially since I tend to overthink gifts and set expectations so high that it stops being fun. This way, she’ll get exactly what she wants, and I can breathe.
Evelyn’s growing up. Lately, I’ve noticed her asserting herself—challenging me, bypassing what I say. It feels disrespectful sometimes, and today I did send her to her room for three minutes.
It seems like every few years I need a parenting update—like I’m the outdated version that requires new hardware. Knowing me, I’ll find the best book with the best strategies, run the update, and be operating in a much smoother, calmer, more peaceful way.
Not today, though.
Today I was… meh.
Love, Jaclynn
Going On 40 