I don’t know who needs to hear this, but raising a small human while working from home is not as “quirky and freeing” as lifestyle blogs promised in 2017. It’s more like being trapped inside a never-ending episode of a reality show no one signed up for—“Survivor: Freelance Parent Edition (Sponsored by Unpaid Invoices and Toddler Tantrums).”
My husband and I are self-employed. Which is a fancy way of saying: no security, no boundaries, and no one to blame but our own poor life choices. We work in the gaps between snack requests, cat vomit, and family phone calls that start with, “Why haven’t you called?…” and end with “…When will you visit?”
We are raising a three-year-old, navigating meetings with people who think we have kindergarten (hilarious), managing a house that I’m pretty sure is actively plotting against us, and cohabitating with three cats who contribute absolutely nothing but hairballs and silent judgment.
It’s going great, thanks for asking.
The Joy of Working From Home (While Also Occasionally Parenting)
There’s a certain smugness that creeps in when you say, “Oh, she’s with her grandparents today,” like you’ve somehow cracked the code to modern parenting. And honestly? We kind of have. Our daughter spends most days living her best life at grandma and grandpa’s—being adored, overfed, and learning important life skills like how to guilt-trip people using only a pout.
This should, in theory, make working from home easier. And it does. For about four minutes. Then we somehow fill the silence with 57 open tabs, back-to-back meetings, and a to-do list that regenerates like a cursed spreadsheet from hell.
Occasionally, we’ll hear the phantom echo of a little one crying and instinctively flinching—even though she’s downstairs, happily eating her fourth snack and explaining why Pela is better than Kela.
Freelancing with a kid at grandma’s is still like trying to write a novel during a rave… but now you’re the DJ, the bouncer, and the one restocking the bar. You finally get a quiet moment to focus, only to spiral into an identity crisis, start reorganizing the kitchen drawers, and wonder if maybe you should go back to school after all.
Meetings, Messages & Mild Meltdowns
Only one of us has meetings, and thank god it’s not me. My husband spends half his life in front of a screen nodding thoughtfully while on mute, and the other half trying to end meetings that were supposed to be emails. He has become a master of the “professional half-shirt”—formal on top, existential despair below.
Meanwhile, I float around the house like a caffeinated ghost, whispering “focus” to myself while toggling between half-written documents and forgotten bills.
House Maintenance (A Greek Tragedy in Three Acts)
Our house, while technically still standing, is… sentient. I’m convinced of it. It senses fear. Every time we catch our breath or dare to relax, it throws a new issue at us. Leaking windows. Mysterious stain. An appliance that stops working constantly.
We talk about doing DIY. Constantly. Like it’s a lifestyle choice we’re one YouTube tutorial away from embracing. There’s a whole Pinterest board, a growing list, and a lot of emotionally charged conversations about what to do next around our house.
We haven’t fixed anything, mind you. But we’ve definitely debated buying a closet at least seven times.
All of our clothes now live in the future bathroom—aka the Room of Requirement, aka the place where ambition goes to die. It currently houses a vacuum bag graveyard, some stray bricks, and our last remaining hope for functional plumbing.
The laundry is never done. The dishes multiply. The floor always needs vacuuming, and yet the cats act like this is some sort of personal vendetta. Sorry, Sunny, but if you shed enough fur to knit a sweater every week, I’m using the Dyson.
Family and Wine
Both sides of our families are deeply invested in our lives. And by invested, I mean confused and vaguely alarmed. They try not to be judgy, but they have faces and those faces say, “I wouldn’t raise a child like that, but okay.”
There are comments. Oh, the comments.
“She’s not in kindergarten yet?”
“How’s the job?”
“When are you putting on the fence?” (As if a fence would solve our existential dread.)
I smile and nod while internally screaming in lowercase. It’s not that we don’t appreciate their concern—we just wish it came with wine and maybe a cleaning service.
The Cats: Agents of Chaos
Three cats. I don’t know how this happened. One minute we had a kitten and dreams, the next we’re sharing our home with a mini mafia that holds us emotionally hostage in exchange for treats.
One of them likes to sing the song of her people at 4 a.m. Another believes he’s a sentient scarf and must lie in front of my husband’s keyboard non-stop. The third just stares, judging, as if to say, “You’re not really going to feed me, are you?”
They’ve become our emotional support animals, except they offer zero emotional support and sometimes vomit in places they shouldn’t.
We’re Fine. Probably. Kind Of.
So yes, we’re anxious. We’re exhausted. We’re underpaid, over caffeinated, and trying to figure it all out while wiping bolognese from the floor and muting meetings to break up toddler vs. cat standoffs.
But we’re also full of love. And very good at laughing about the absurdity of it all. Which is probably the only thing keeping us from setting the to-do list on fire just to feel something.
People say, “This is just the season of life.” Sure. But if this is a season, it’s monsoon, earthquake, and experimental hardstyle all at once. We’re dancing through it. Badly. Barefoot. Usually while holding a cat.
So the next time someone asks, “How’s the freelance life with a toddler and three cats?” I’ll just smile and say, “You know. Thriving.”
And then go cry into the laundry pile I was definitely going to fold yesterday.
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