CEO of Chaos: All the Hats I Wear as a Mom to Ausome Kids (And Yes, I’m Still Hiring… Myself)

Some moms get cute titles like “soccer mom” or “PTO president.”

Me? I’m running an entire mental health-informed, neurodivergent-optimized, 24/7 crisis-and-creativity management corporation out of my living room.

And guess what?

I am the CEO.

The janitor.

The personal chef.

The therapist.

The gaming tournament commentator.

The human weighted blanket.

The executive director of “Can I Have a Snack?” operations.

The sensory integration specialist.

The personal stylist.

The charger-finder.

The emergency negotiator when underwear is apparently life-threatening.

All for the low, low salary of zero dollars and approximately seven new gray hairs per week.

Welcome to the job titles nobody tells you you’re signing up for when you become the parent of ausome kids.

1. Director of Domestic Chaos

Job duties include:

• Locating missing socks (even if they were literally just on your child’s feet).

• Breaking up 17 arguments about Minecraft server etiquette before 10 a.m.

• Navigating meltdowns, sensory overloads, and “he’s looking at me funny” disputes with the patience of a hostage negotiator.

 2. Personal Chef (Specializing in Highly Specific Requests)

• Breakfast? Easy.

  Six different styles of eggs, three emergency cereals, and a backup pancake negotiation if the textures are wrong today.

• Lunch? A war zone.

  One kid wants chicken nuggets. Another demands macaroni, but only the orange kind, not the white cheddar kind, because “it’s suspicious.”

• Dinner? Hope you like rejection.

  Someone will cry regardless of the menu.

Congratulations: you’ve been Michelin-starred in survival cuisine.

3. Head of Facilities and Lost and Found Department

Nothing — and I mean nothing — can stay where it belongs in a house of neurodivergent brilliance.

I have personally rescued:

• 14 missing shoes

• 6 important school papers (crumpled into origami art)

• 3 lost remotes (2 in the fridge, 1 behind the toilet)

• 1 sock that “ran away because it was lonely”

You laugh, but it’s Tuesday here. 

4. Lead Gaming Spectator and Referee

Minecraft should come with a warning label:“May cause extreme emotional rollercoasters, accusations of theft, and ten-minute debates over who owns which block.”

Also, shoutout to Fortnite, where my job is yelling helpful motivational phrases like:

• “You’re building faster than them!”

• “No, behind you! Behind you!”

• “IT’S JUST A GAME PLEASE STOP CRYING.”

5. Resident Therapist (Without a Degree, Just Vibes)

Daily affirmations include:

• “You’re safe. You’re loved. Big feelings are not bad feelings.”

• “It’s okay to take a break before you say something mean.”

• “No, Minecraft Steve is not mad at you.”

6. Personal Stylist (Specializing in Highly Specific Wardrobe Needs)

Fashion week? Please. Try dressing five neurodivergent kids with very clear, very non-negotiable sensory preferences.

For example:

• One kid only wants to wear black. All black. 24/7.

  He will not remove his coat or shoes — even indoors — and cannot function without his beloved “hug gloves” (compression gloves for deep sensory input).

• One kid despises socks with the passion of a thousand suns.

  If forced to wear socks, they must be the “right” kind — which changes daily, naturally — or there will be protests. Also allergic to pants at home. Refuses to get dressed until we are physically leaving. Jeans and long shirts? Personal attack.

• Meanwhile, my little girl has a full-blown outfit catalog for every occasion.

  Birthday party? Special dress.

  Grocery store? Carefully curated leggings.

  Random Tuesday? Princess gown with sneakers.

  She rehearses her interaction scripts based on her favorite characters before we leave the house. And if you dare change her script mid-scene — may God have mercy on your soul.

• My older kids?

  They’re figuring it out — advocating for their sensory needs, dressing themselves in ways that work for them, and handling their bodies like the rockstars they are.

  Honestly? It feels like parenting gold when it clicks.

7. Head of Tech Support and Emergency Charger Retrieval

No one — and I mean NO ONE — feels panic like a child whose tablet battery just hit 5%.

I have:

• Bought chargers in bulk like it’s toilet paper in 2020.

• Fished out mystery cords from under couches.

• Delivered live-charging rescues mid-Minecraft battle.

• Been personally blamed for a tablet dying even though I wasn’t within a 10-mile radius.

Chargers are life. Chargers are currency. Chargers are peace treaties.

Lord help us all if one more charger breaks this week.

8. Chief Bedtime Story Improviser

I can turn any meltdown, shoe struggle, or argument about chicken nuggets into a magical bedtime story about courageous, quirky animals who conquer their worlds…with sensory-friendly accommodations and epic capes, obviously.

10/10 storytelling.Would hire myself again if I weren’t already overbooked.

9. CEO of Chaos Management (And I’m Still Figuring It Out)

Here’s the truth: I’m exhausted. I’m winging it half the time. I’m drinking coffee at illegal speeds.

But I’m also raising the most brilliant, funny, kind, resilient human beings I’ve ever met.

Even if they eat my last piece of chocolate and then fight about it.

Even if they leave their socks and tablet chargers in the freezer.

Even if they scream because their Minecraft pig was “accidentally murdered” by their sibling.

I’m still here. Still managing the chaos. Still loving them harder than anything I thought was possible.

Final Thoughts:

If you see me out in the wild — messy bun, coffee in hand, muttering about broken chargers and missing hug gloves — just know:

I’m not broken.

I’m not failing.

I’m just doing 17 full-time jobs for a team of tiny humans who are busy building their own extraordinary, messy, beautiful worlds.

And honestly?

I wouldn’t trade these titles for anything.

(Except maybe a nap. And maybe someone else cooking dinner for once.)

Because this — this beautiful disaster —is Chaos in Color.

And it’s mine.