The Ink Chapel

Here’s the thing about Mom Monday: it’s supposed to be this wholesome Pinterest-core day where moms share crockpot recipes and Target hauls. Meanwhile, I’m over here living in a court-ordered parody of motherhood. Instead of soccer practice or bedtime stories, I get “7 p.m. Wednesday phone calls, monitored.” Like, I didn’t even know parenting came with a parole officer.

But sure, let’s pretend a phone line with built-in surveillance is the same thing as being a mother.

⸻

The Itinerary of Petty Greatness

Since I can’t exactly mom the way I want to, I’m momming myself today. And honestly? I might be better at it.

First Stop: Dutch Bros.

Not for the “vibes,” not for the sunshiney teen baristas who think smiling is a personality trait—nope. I’m there because I need a drink so sweet it could rot the enamel off my teeth by the time I get back in the car. If I’m going to be denied my kids, I’ll at least have heart palpitations to keep me company.

Second Stop: Golfland.

Because where else can I smack a ball into a fake volcano and scream “this is for custody court” without anyone batting an eye? Mini golf is therapy with astroturf. If the ball goes in the water hazard, that’s just symbolism.

Third Stop: In-N-Out.

Grease. Salt. Cheese. Do I need to say more? I ordered enough to make the drive-thru girl question whether I was feeding a family of six. Joke’s on her—I’m just feeding the gaping hole in my chest where my children should be.

Fourth Stop: The Conjuring.

Nothing says “self-care” like watching a demon destroy a fictional family while I sit in the theater muttering, “same.” If one of those ghosts popped up in my house, I’d hand it a court summons and say, “Congrats, you’re in the family now.”

Fifth Stop: The Sky.

Because apparently the universe decided to flex and send me a double rainbow. Two arcs, shining bright, like some cosmic reminder that even when life is pure garbage, there’s still a little sparkle in the mess. Or maybe it was just the universe trolling me—“Look, rainbows! But no kids! Good luck with your fries, bitch!”

⸻

The Emotional Whiplash

People like to say, “At least you still get to talk to them.” Yeah, because monitored phone calls once a week are exactly the same as tucking them in at night. Let me tell you, nothing makes you feel more like a real parent than being supervised while saying, “How was your day?”

So instead, I fill my time with Dutch Bros, double rainbows, and demons. Because if I don’t laugh about it, I’ll scream. And if I scream, someone will probably file another motion about “unhinged behavior.”

© 2025 theinkchapel | don’t steal my trauma. thanks.