Hollywood makes it look easy.

When I pictured my life with kids, I had an idyllic sense of what my life would be like:
I would come home from a fulfilling day at work and make a delicious and nutritious dinner that my family would devour. My children would happily play with one another while I cooked, with the occasional squabble that could be nixed with a stern glance. We would eat together as a family and then play a game or read a book together. My children would crawl into bed, I'd sing them a lullaby, and then I would finish whatever minor things needed to be done around the house, like the dinner dishes. I would crawl into my own bed, and fall into a deep, uninterrupted sleep.

Reality has a way of kicking you in the butt and then taunting you while you're down.
My work is just that: work. I deal with really sick people, some who are dying, all day long. It seems like lately we've had more people die than success stories. I leave work exhausted and emotionally drained. Most nights, I meet Scott and home and we throw something together for our dinners: one for us and one for Chloe. She is such a picky eater. Usually her supper consists of bread and yogurt. We keep trying to introduce new things, but she isn't buying it.
The kids squabble. With each other. With the animals. With us.
I'm tired of telling Chloe to stop screaming and use her words.
I'm tired of telling Caleb to stop whining and tattling on his sister.
I'm tired of telling both of them to quit tackling the cat or stop cornering the dog.

Bedtime is a battle every night with Caleb.
I just finished another round of sleep training with Chloe who completely lost her ability to self-soothe after months of teething and ear infections. Fingers crossed, its working so far.

My house looks like a tornado hit it.

My kitchen is consistently dirty.

But despite all of this, I'm happy. Really happy, not in that fake Hollywood kind of way either.