Mother’s Day always feels like a high-stakes performance. Like we’re all trying to land the perfect expression of love and gratitude for the women in our lives who do everything—while scrambling for overpriced brunch reservations and last-minute floral arrangements… at the exact same time.

And don’t get me wrong—I love honoring the women I love. But this year, I wanted something slower. Softer. More intentional. Less about doing the “right thing,” and more about doing something real.

So instead of sipping lukewarm mimosas and eating rubbery eggs in a crowded restaurant, we’re staying home. We’ll be stirring wax, sipping homemade lavender lemonade, and leaning into the cozy chaos of doing it our way.

Jen mentioned she wanted to make candles for Mother’s Day, so instead of having some stranger boss her around in a strip mall studio, I said, “Maybe we could do it at home?”

She replied, “No way—if it’s at home, I’ll take over. I want to relax and enjoy the day.”

So naturally, I nodded sweetly… and ordered everything anyway: wax, wicks, jars, essential oils, melter pots, and a wipeable plastic tablecloth—for a full-blown DIY candle-making adventure I was 99% sure she’d love once she saw it.

Worst case? She’d resist, we’d end up at a candle shop, and halfway through she’d whisper, “We totally could’ve done this better ourselves.”

As the boxes started rolling in, so did her excitement. She insisted on making a “test” candle last night, and when I saw her carefully measuring bergamot and rosewood drops with that gleam in her eye, I realized: I may have awakened a candle witch. We might be entering our potion-making era. Send matches. Prepare for Practical Magic and midnight margaritas.

Meanwhile, I’m planning a cozy Sunday brunch for the women in our circle: lavender blueberry scones, a veggie frittata, strawberry citrus salad, mimosas, and a fresh-baked sourdough loaf for an avocado toast bar.

My one rule? Jen’s not allowed in the kitchen. No errands. No gift bag assembly. No “Let me just do this one thing,” or “You know what might be easier?” She’s been lovingly banned—for her own good. She’s brilliant, she’s unstoppable, and on Mother’s Day… she shall rest.

God bless her—she’s the most capable, determined woman I know—and this time, I want her to melt into the moment and let me carry the day.

I’m finally starting to understand how many versions of motherhood exist—and how none of them come with a manual. Or boundaries. Or quiet.

All of this is unfolding in the middle of Teacher Appreciation Week, the final stretch of my 25th year in education (yes, I could’ve birthed a teacher by now), and the hormonal circus that is teenage boyhood.

The kiddo just got his first iPhone—a major upgrade from the parent-surveillance Bark phone of his now-ending middle school era. Now we’re in that charming chapter where he wants independence… and also dinner. Last night, he asked if we could not install Bark this time because “I just don’t want you guys seeing everything.”

Then, fresh off his digital privacy defense, he casually mentioned that he’s been talking to a girl with a bit of a “spicy” reputation.

And that, kiddo, is why there are still a few content restrictions being considered by the adults in your life. We get it—you want freedom. But we’re here to guide you, teach you, and gently shoo away the Trampy McSnapchats and their saucy distraction bait. Even if our involvement is starting to cramp your vibe.

Watching him stretch toward adulthood is both hilarious and tender. He’s melting out of kidhood into something bigger, messier, and very much still in progress.

And from where I sit—not mom, not really stepmom, but bonus adult with a backstage pass—it’s a front-row seat to the slow burn of becoming.

At school, it’s that season when the chaos softens. The students who came in like Tasmanian devils are still themselves—but a little more chill. A little more at ease in their own skin.

I had an IEP meeting this week for a girl who flipped out and caused a big scene back in September when I enforced a boundary. This week, I got to tell her mom: her energy has shifted. She’s still not doing her work—but she’s softer. More self-aware. That counts.

And when I took a much-needed mental health day yesterday, every single one of my classes got a glowing sub report. No fires. No chaos. Just a quiet kind of progress that whispers: You’re doing okay. They’re doing okay. We’ve reached a kind of collective homeostasis.

So here we are. Wax in the melter. My gorgeous candle witch swirling oils in the kitchen. Hormones in the hallway. Students settling into summer mode. And me—somewhere between exhaustion and awe—melting into all of it.

Because this kind of motherhood—chosen, earned, accidental, bonus—is about being the flame and the vessel. It’s about softening without disappearing. Holding space while holding boundaries. Melting and re-forming, again and again.

This week, I’m raising a pomegranate mimosa to all of us who are mothers and teachers in our own strange, beautiful ways: the ones who grow into the role, who light the way, who sometimes burn out but always rekindle. The ones who melt and mold, who face the fire and still add beauty—and somehow manage to hold it all together with tenderness and light.