Chewy turns two this summer. And if his cheeks continue to droop just so, to create the perfectly irresistible lower lip, then the only terribleness that awaits me is my self. And Nibbles? Ah, my first born, dear first born – he turns five before the leaves are jaundiced. And somewhere in between comes a birthday best forgotten in a decade that’s proving more lost and jaded than the 20s. And of course, an anniversary that marks a year of staying at home. After quitting. Not resigning, but quitting.

So have I found that elusive answer then? You know, the one that will silence the slew of what-the-fucks? What the fuck am I doing with my life? What the fuck will bring me happiness? What the fuck happened in this bathroom 26 seconds after I scrubbed it spotless? Amazingly enough, amidst the roaring of the 4th dryer cycle, the 3rd re-run of Diego saves the Humpback Whale and the 2nd pressure cooker whistle of frozen vegetable khichdi – the answer is: no. I have no answers. Nada. Zilch.

On the plus side, I have no questions either, apart from: should I do the floors before the playdate or after? Perhaps sweep + vacuum – mop = right balance between supermom and hippie free-ranger. Yes, the absence of performance reviews and bonuses have led me to seek validation from playdates. No, I have not an iota of self-worth, else I’d have a handle on a good chunk of what-the-fucks by now, ne c’est pas (pardon my french)?

Bogged down by guilt and a muddled sense of financial responsibility and worthlessness, I can’t look my boys in the eye and nudge them to follow their dreams. Not unless I figure out a way to help them tune out the cacophonous, judgmental world out there and listen to the little voices within, before they fade away. Deaf to those voices screeching within me, blind to the truth out there, I lead my sons into a world I’ve never known. So help me cabernet ’10 and maggi noodles generously soaked in Tapatio hot sauce.