The Fifteen Percent

Two days ago I experienced something that happens about once a month—I had one of those days. You know the ones Mama said there would be, when you suddenly don’t feel right, nothing lines up, insult gets piled on top of injury, and you find yourself caught in a whirlpool, spiraling toward self-pity.

I sat down to write and couldn’t. I tried closing my eyes and breathing for a few minutes, blocking everything out so I could start over. Then the doorbell rang. A box of thirty books I’d ordered for a book festival next month sat waiting for me, taunting me: You’re not getting anywhere.

Then my daughter woke up after only forty-five minutes—just as I’d given up on writing and decided to eat. I’d just thrown an egg in the pan, so I turned off the stove and went to get her. She has just started to walk, and while I cooked, she opened all her favorite cabinets and pulled out all her favorite kitchen gadgets—the blue plastic mixing bowls, the inside of the rice cooker, the thin cutting boards.

I gave her a leftover roll to eat and later swept a trail of crumbs from the kitchen to the laundry room to the dog bed.

Why didn’t you meal prep? I berated myself.

The instant I put her in her highchair, she threw a fit. I ate cold food, one bite at a time over the next hour, haphazardly making a grocery list while chasing her around.

Finally, we were on our way to the grocery store. It wasn’t my best day, but we could still turn this ship around.

As we walked in, a woman called out, “Cute grandbaby! Er—baby.”

I didn’t stop walking. I put Freya in the cart, strapped her in, kissed her, and began my usual dialogue with her—asking her what she sees as she enthusiastically points and gasps at the faces and objects that make up the wonderland of the grocery store.

Grandbaby.

My ego flared.

If you’re an older mom, you understand the punch in the gut delivered by that careless assignment. The whirlpool won. The deluge drowned me. Internally, I became the worst version of myself. Outwardly—though a bit disheveled—I was put together and getting things done. Inside, I was crushed.

We have these days. We cannot avoid them, no matter how consistent we are with our routines. And I want to point out that it all started with being in a writing funk, which is simply the reality of being a writer—or any kind of creator.

Some days, you just don’t want to.

Ironically, in the last Joy Realm post, I shared my writing routine. I stressed that it’s something I’m able to stick to about eighty-five percent of the time, and that the other fifteen percent I simply remind myself to return to it the next day.

This day fell squarely in the fifteen percent.

You can’t expect to be one hundred percent all the time when you’re also the mother of a young child—and probably not even if you’re single and childless. At Joy Realm, we don’t worship perfection, put-together-ness, or the false impression that life is somehow better because of a secret thing we’re selling.

We’re not selling anything—except maybe the board book Goodnight Moon and a few other items we actually use, things that genuinely help our babies engage their minds and grow. We’re not selling secrets. We’re not part of that scam.

At Joy Realm, we’re building a community around the joy of mothering and creating—of supporting one another as we build our little, enchanted worlds. Our realms.

When you have days like this—and you will—we’re here to remind you to simplify. It’s okay to let a day fall into the fifteen percent. It’s okay to give in to the whirlpool and not be your best self.

All you have to do on days like these is care for, feed, and be present with your children.

It is more than enough.