I’ve been with my husband for 30 years, but perimenopause turned my heart into a cold, analytical “Lawyer.” One argument over a lollipop almost led to an email-delivered ultimatum. This is a story about the emotional detachment of “the change” and why we’re choosing to hold on.

Vince calls AI my ‘boyfriend’ because it listens better than him, doesn’t drink my coffee, and doesn’t ask for sex. But in reality? AI is like my air fryer on crystal meth. It’s helping me build career-fit games for Scarlett, analyze real estate deals while I play ‘doggy workshop’ with Evie, and save hundreds of dollars at the vet. The robots are coming, and I’m using those hunks of silicon to do all the stuff I don’t want to do so I can enjoy my family more.

Our boy Vince is like a bomb. Between catching himself on fire while making fajitas and getting called out by his ‘inner dickhead’ daughter, the dinner table was a ticking time bomb. Will he explode or laugh it off? Dive into the fire, the silence, and the ‘light emotional damage’ that builds resiliency.”

It started with Evie—Patient Zero—who licks handrails like a Michelin Star Inspector of metal pipes. Before I knew it, the ‘Lost Week’ between Christmas and New Year’s turned into a scene from Outbreak. Between the sickness fluids, a husband ‘auditioning’ for patient status, and my own Type A refusal to sit down, I realized something: the only thing harder than being sick is being the Mom everyone else depends on.

You shouldn’t know where someone is 24/7—that’s borderline restraining-order energy. I’m pitching a new reality show: no technology, no preplanned dates, just straight notes mailed through the USPS. Because there’s something about a tear-stained doodle in the margins that a text just can’t touch.

What is it about some older women that compels them into sly mom shaming? I recently received the full-force blast of granny passive aggression. From my dog in the car to my daughter’s hair, it was a masterclass in ‘dick’ behavior disguised as conversation.