Nine Weeks, One Nervous Parent, and a Very Opinionated Cat

Okay, so it’s happening. It’s happening.

Nine weeks.
Three kids.
Three weeks each.

One apartment in California that has never, not once, had to hold my parental brain, my work brain, and my nervous system all in the same space like this.

I’m excited.
I’m terrified.
I’m spiraling a little, but in a cute, high-functioning kind of way, which is how we do things around here.

This is the first time they’re coming here. Not just visiting me but stepping into this part of my life — this version of myself. The California me. The me who works early in the morning goes to the gym and has a cat named Stromps who rules the house with passive-aggressive glares and surprise snuggles.

And I keep thinking — what if I mess this up? What if I’m too tired, too stressed, or too focused on “doing it right” that I end up doing it wrong?

What if they don’t want to come back?

So. deep breath. Here’s what I’m reminding myself:

I Don’t Have to Be a Super Parent

I can be a good enough parent.
Loving. Present. Hydrated.
I can make breakfast. Ask curious questions.
Take breaks when I need them.
I can say, “I’m having a feeling right now, so I’m going to take five minutes.”
Because honestly? Modeling regulation is better than pretending I don’t have feelings at all.

Everyone Needs Space — Not Just Me

Three weeks is a long time in a kid’s time.

They’ll need downtime screen time, solo time, weird little rituals, and moments where I am Not Their Audience.

So let’s build it in:

• Quiet mornings with cartoons and toast
• Afternoon library visits
• One “do your own thing” hour every day, where I can gym/meditate/cry softly on the balcony while they chill
• Evening walks. Even if it’s to get popsicles.

The Gym Isn’t Optional

It’s my mental health prescription.
I need movement.
Not for aesthetics.

For the part of me that doesn’t lash out if my blood has had a chance to do something useful that day.

Early mornings.
Headphones in.
No one was talking to me for 45 minutes.
This is not selfish.
This is sacred.

Also: Sweaty brain == Happy brain

Big Feelings Will Happen

Theirs. Mine. Stromps’.

Someone will miss home. Someone will hate the food. Someone will cry because their shoelace isn’t cooperating, and it will feel like the end of the world.

That’s not failure. That’s being human.

We make space for it.
We breathe through it.
We don’t fix it all — we witness.

And maybe a hug. Or make pancakes.
Or draw it out with crayons and label it “Rage Muffin” or “Sad Volcano.”

Stromps Still Matters

Look, this cat is 50% attitude, 50% emotional support animal, and 100% not used to sharing me.

She will need snuggles, stability, a spot to hide, and zero tiny hands grabbing her tail. So we make her a fort. We give her treats.

We make the kids Stromps ambassadors: “Your mission is to keep stromps happy today.”

She will be fine if she feels seen.

Same as all of us.

I Don’t Have to Do It Alone

Support is a phone call away.
A friend I can text.
A therapist I can check in with.
The local park.
A nearby takeout place that knows me by name and gives me extra soy sauce without asking.

Community isn’t always big. Sometimes, it’s just consistent.

It’s Okay to NOT Enjoy Every Moment

Because this will be hard.
It will be beautiful.
It will be exhausting.
It will stretch me.

But also, it will pass.

So, I’m writing this to remind myself:

I can do this.
One breath, one meal, one quiet cat cuddle at a time.
If I lose it one day, that doesn’t mean the whole thing is lost; it just means I’ll have to find it again.

If they miss home, that doesn’t mean they hate it here.
If I feel overwhelmed, that doesn’t mean I’m not a good parent.
It just means it’s real.

And real is messy and human, full of moments we’ll laugh about later.

Or journal about.
Or write poems about.
Or just… survive.

Dear Future Rain:

This is not a test.
It’s an experience.
You’re not here to prove you’re perfect.
You’re here to be present.
And stock up on caffeine. And goldfish crackers.
And definitely make sure Stromps still gets her sunbeam nap time.
You’ve got this.
I promise.

XOXO, ~Rain.