The Dishes Are Judging Me... and So Is My Kid

(A Neurodivergent Parent’s Guide to Raising Neurodivergent Kids Without Utterly Falling Apart)

Some

where between the fourth meltdown and the third reheated coffee, my child looked me dead in the eyes and said:
“You forgot my favorite spoon again. The green one. Now everything’s ruined.”

And honestly? Valid.

Because when you’re a neurodivergent parent raising neurodivergent children, minor details are never minor. The green spoon is sacred. My working memory? Held together with duct tape and spite.

Motivation? I Don’t Know Her

Some people wake up early, drink lemon water, and knock out a to-do list before 10am. I wake up confused, emotionally fragile, and immediately negotiating with myself about whether changing out of pajama pants is really necessary.

So no, I’m not exactly a “motivational guru.” I am, however, a walking, exhausted experiment in how not to completely unravel when both you and your kid think deadlines are a personal attack.

If motivation had a PR team, they’d have fired me by now.

But here’s the thing: It’s not laziness. It’s neuroscience. (And also maybe a little bit of depression, executive dysfunction, and the fact that I can no longer remember what day it is.)

Motivation Looks Weird in This House

Let’s talk brain stuff, but like, the messy version:

• ADHD means my kid (and me) need stimulation immediately or we will start reorganizing Pokémon cards instead of brushing our teeth.

• Autism means we both might cry if someone moves a chair. Or breathes wrong. Or suggests group work.

• C-PTSD means we don’t do “surprise tasks,” “raised voices,” or any kind of authority that isn’t offered with a snack and a weighted blanket.

And guess what? Sometimes we have all three. In one person. Or everyone. And somehow, I’m the one in charge.

Whose idea was this?!

What’s Actually Helping Us Survive (Barely)

Let’s be honest: Pinterest parenting advice is not for us. My reward chart lasted two days before I used the stickers to cover a coffee stain on my laptop. Instead, here’s what actually works — on our best-ish days.

🧠 1. Step One: Pretend You’re Calm

If either of us senses fear, the whole operation collapses. So I’ve mastered the art of speaking in a soothing, Disney-princess voice while inwardly screaming and wondering if I left the laundry in the washer. (Spoiler: I did.)

Try:

• “We’re just gonna start with ONE sock.”

• “Hey, I’ll do it with you. And then we’ll scream into a pillow together.”

• “I love you even if your room looks like a crime scene.”

⚡ 2. Motivation = Dinosaurs + Dopamine

Generic praise does nothing. My kid once looked me dead in the face after I said “good job!” and replied, “That’s not specific enough to be motivating.”
Same.

So now we combine:

• Their special interest (volcanoes)

• An immediate reward (snack, fidget, three minutes of chaos)

• Low expectations (completion optional, survival celebrated)

📋 3. Visual Aids So I Don’t Have to Talk

I love my children. I do not love repeating myself like a broken Roomba.

Enter:

• Whiteboards

• Sticky notes

• Scribbles on the bathroom mirror in eyeliner (no regrets)

Sometimes I draw a picture of a task like it’s a treasure map. Is that over-the-top? Maybe. Does it work? Sometimes. That’s enough for me.

🧘 4. Rest is Not Optional (Apparently)

Motivation doesn’t live in a house where everyone’s running on cortisol and leftover Pop-Tarts. So we rest. A lot. Like, maybe too much. But whatever. At least we’re horizontal.

Try:

• “Let’s take a break before we even begin.”

• “Work for 2 minutes. Rest for 5. Congratulations, you’re a productivity icon.”

• “If we both make it through this task without crying, we get a nap.”

🛠️ 5. The “Motivation Menu” (AKA Bribery, But Cute)

We made a list of stuff that helps us function. I called it a “menu” to feel fancy, but it’s literally just “fidget, juice box, silence, gummy worms, alone time.”

We use it when we’re stuck. Or cranky. Or alive.

And if nothing on the menu works? We add something new. Like lying on the floor and moaning. Which, honestly, slaps.

And When It All Falls Apart

Because it will. You’ll snap. They’ll scream. Someone will cry in the laundry basket. It might be you. That’s fine. The laundry basket is a valid emotional support container.

Here’s what I try to do afterward:

• Apologize (to them and to myself)

• Breathe like I’ve seen people do on YouTube

• Let us both start over, even if it’s 4pm and we’re still in pajamas

Final Thoughts (from the Floor)

We are not broken.
We are not lazy.
We are not doomed because the dishes are doing their best to emotionally manipulate us from the sink.

We are a family full of nervous systems doing their absolute best with what we’ve got — which today might be a half-eaten sandwich, one working executive function, and a deep love for jellyfish documentaries.

And if that’s all we manage?

It’s enough.

📚 Real-Life Sanity Lifelines

• The Body Keeps the Score — and so does the sink

• What Your ADHD Child Wishes You Knew — probably includes “don’t touch my stuff”

• Neurotribes — for realizing you’re not alone in this circus

• Rest Is Productive — not a book, just a mantra I chant between breakdowns

I Meant to Clean the House. I Wrote This Instead.

I Meant to Clean the House. I Wrote This Instead.

I woke up with
intentions. Big ones.
You know the kind — where you sit up in bed and decide, “This is the day I stop living in filth and chaos. This is the day I become the woman TikTok thinks I am.”

The laundry piles were threatening structural integrity, we were out of forks again, and the floor was crunchier than my toddler’s snack cup. I even lit one of those knockoff lemon candles that smells more like Pine-Sol than citrus — because scent, apparently, is how I trick my brain into thinking productivity is happening.

I had a plan. A real one.
And then I sat down to “get organized.” Which, in this house, is code for opening my laptop and spiraling into a hyperfocused black hole of productivity... on everything except what I meant to do.

I figured I’d just “write a little something real quick” to get my brain going before I tackled the dishes.
Four hours later, the dishes are still playing Jenga in the sink and I’m knee-deep in metaphors about procrastination.

The wildest part? I feel productive. I’m typing. I'm not scrolling or binge-watching crime documentaries while stress-eating cereal. I’m working. Just... not on what I planned.

Apparently, this has a name. Productive procrastination. It’s when your brain decides to avoid one task by aggressively tackling something else that feels useful.
I know this because one time I looked it up instead of folding laundry.
I also downloaded a book on it — didn’t finish, but I did reorganize the apps on my phone into color-coded folders, so that’s something.

It’s a cycle.
I’ve made fancy chore charts. I’ve printed Pinterest-worthy schedules. I’ve watched “Clean with Me” videos while lying face-down in a pile of clean clothes that have been “airing out” on the couch for six days.

Once, I deep-cleaned the microwave instead of unloading the dishwasher because it “seemed faster.” That lie lives rent-free in my head.

Sometimes I try to trick myself into starting. I’ll set a ten-minute timer and say, “Just do something.”
Nine minutes in, I’m still arguing with myself about which something is the right something.

Other times, I slap on a true crime podcast and pretend I'm solving a murder while bleaching the toilet. Adds drama. Makes it feel noble.

And when things get really dire? I invite someone over.
Suddenly, I can clean a whole living room in twenty minutes fueled entirely by shame and panic.

But today? No guests. No timer. Just me, the crunchy floor, and this blog post.
The house still looks like a "before" picture. But this post? She’s done.

That counts, right?

I’ll clean tomorrow.
Or after lunch.
Or right after I check whether vinegar and baking soda can fix my life.

(Maybe if I sprinkle some on the floor and whisper affirmations...)

The Dishes Are Judging Me (Again)

The Dishes Are Judging Me (Again)

Because apparently they don’t care that I’m out of spoons.

Somewhere in the depths of my kitchen sink, a single fork mocks me. Just sitting there. Probably whispering, “Wow, couldn’t even rinse me off?” And honestly? No, I could not.

Because here’s the thing about housework when you’re neurodivergent, over-touched, under-rested, and emotionally crispy: the dishes aren’t just dishes. They’re guilt. They’re shame. They’re a Greek chorus singing off-key reminders that I’m “failing at adulthood.” And that’s before we even get to the laundry.

People love to say “you’ll feel better once it’s clean!” as if motivation just floats down from the ceiling like fairy dust the moment I pick up a mop. Newsflash: it doesn’t. Motivation doesn’t show up first. It’s not the starting pistol. It’s the afterthought maybe—if the stars align and the coffee kicks in at the right time.

Most days, I stare at the chaos and think, “Yeah, not today, Satan.” I know what needs to be done. I even want it done. I just can’t seem to start. Executive dysfunction isn’t cute. It doesn’t care about your to-do list, your planner, or your Pinterest board full of “Cleaning Hacks That Changed My Life.”

And let’s talk about the kids. They are brilliant. Hilarious. Neurospicy and overflowing with personality. But helpful? Not especially. One of them wipes peanut butter on the couch and swears it’s “abstract art.” Another uses the laundry basket as a fort and the third seems to believe the floor is the laundry basket. Add in my ADHD husband—who I love deeply but who also leaves a trail of half-done projects like breadcrumbs—and suddenly the clutter feels... personal.

The house is loud. Small. Cramped. Full of love and crumbs and noise and color-coded chaos that never
stays coded. It’s not Pinterest-perfect, but it’s real.

And still, the dishes judge me. Again.

But here’s what I try to remember when it all feels like too much:

• Done is better than perfect.

• A 10-minute tidy still counts.

• The mess isn’t a moral failure.

• Motivation often shows up after momentum—not before.

Some days I conquer the dishes. Some days I just rinse one spoon and call it a win. Either way? I’m doing the best I can, in the body and brain I’ve got.

So yeah. The dishes are judging me. Again. But I’m learning not to take it personally.

Welcome to the Chaos

Welcome to the Chaos: A Neurodivergent Mom's Self-Help Survival Blog
Because "Getting It Together" is Overrated, and Honestly? A little Suspicious.

Hey, hey-welcome, ya beautiful disaster. However you landed here—whether you were doomscrolling at 2am, hyperfixating on executive dysfunction memes, or you got lost somewhere between a Pinterest recipe and a Facebook mom group meltdown—I'm glad you made it.

I'm your host: a Massachusetts-born, Virginia-weathered married mom of three with CPTSD, ADHD, and a strong suspicion I'm somewhere on the autism spectrum. I've done the deep dive—more than once—and the signs are all there like flashing neon lights. If online quizzes counted, I'd have a certificate by now. But getting an adult diagnosis? Between the waitlists, the providers who "don't really do that," and the ridiculous cost (because of course insurance doesn't cover it), I eventually ran out of steam. When surviving the day already takes everything you've got, chasing a label you already know fits just feels impossible.

Everyone in this house? Neurodivergent. Every. Single. One. Of. Us.
My husband? ADHD. Me? ADHD, trauma-brained, and emotionally crispy.
Our youngest (our shared child) got the Ultra ADHD Deluxe Edition.
The older two? From my ex-husband—each rocking their own versions of brain spaghetti. Think: ADHD in stereo with the occasional surround sound meltdowns.

And yeah, I don't have primary custody of my older two. That's a deep cut that doesn't ever really scab over. Their dad—bless his heart (and I do mean that in the most Virginia way possible)—treats co-parenting like a full-contact sport with no referee. It's brutal. But this blog? Not about airing dirty laundry or asking for pity—it's about making it through the mess with humor, honesty, and maybe a little sass along the way.

This space is for the moms who are doing their best with a brain that refuses to cooperate. For the parents who forget the appointment and the reminder for the appointment. For the ones using dry shampoo as a lifestyle choice and wondering if "coping skills" includes crying in the car with the music just loud enough to drown out the overthinking.

We'll talk about the hard stuff. The weird stuff. The stuff neurotypical folks just don't get. And we'll celebrate the beautiful chaos too—the impulsive creativity, the unexpected laughter, the empathy that runs so deep it's basically a superpower (and also a little exhausting, tbh).

Listen—I'm not a licensed anything. I'm not here to tell you to wake up at sunrise and journal your way to enlightenment. (I mean, I might say journaling helps, but also have I journaled in the last 6 months? No. No I have not.)

This blog is my brain-dump-therapy-zone. My "maybe if I write it out, it'll make sense" space. My love letter to all of us neurospicy weirdos who are just trying to raise kids, heal our inner child, manage a grocery list, and maybe—maybe—remember to take our meds on time.

So if you're looking for the perfectly polished Pinterest mom who has themed snack containers and a color-coded calendar... bless her. But she doesn't live here.
If you want unfiltered, slightly unhinged, but totally relatable? Pull up a chair. You're in the right place.

Let's survive this chaos together—with caffeine, memes, duct tape, and a hell of a lot of heart.

With love and microwave-warmed coffee,
Your Slightly Unstable, Totally Lovable Blog Mom
(A Masshole-turned-Virginian with attitude, anxiety, and zero chill)