Witch, Please

I survive motherhood the same way any modern woman of intellect does—by listening to audiobooks while preventing tiny humans from committing crimes.

Nothing really enhances a dramatic plot twist like shouting, “PLEASE don’t cover your sister in diaper cream,” for the eighth time. Honestly, if audiobooks came with a “pause for parenting chaos” feature, I’d be on chapter 47 by now instead of emotionally stuck on chapter 3.

Then, in a moment of pure delusion (or what I can only assume was a mild hex gone wrong), I decided to write a book.

Do I know how to write a book? Debatable.

Did I technically graduate from Hogwarts? Yes.

Did they ever cover “writing a novel while sleep-deprived with two small children” in the curriculum? Absolutely not.

Do I have roughly one hour of free time a day and the sleep schedule of a haunted Victorian child? Also yes.

Am I doing it anyway? Of course. This feels like the kind of overconfidence that would’ve gotten me extra credit in Defense Against the Dark Arts.

So I made the bold decision to stop just listening to books and start actually reading them—because clearly what my life needed was one more unrealistic goal. You know, to “study the craft.” Like a proper witch who once spent entire nights in the Hogwarts library, fully believing adulthood would include more quiet reading time and significantly less… diaper-related emergencies.

Now, in theory, reading is relaxing. Peaceful. A quiet escape.

In reality, reading with children under five is more like trying to study for O.W.L.s while two house-elves have unionized against you and chosen chaos.

You have to get strategic. I carefully select my reading windows like I’m planning a heist. Quiet time. Right before bed. That magical 12-minute stretch where no one is crying, sticky, or suspiciously silent.

That’s when I read.

Do I get a lot of reading done? No.

I’ve been reading the same 400-page book for two weeks, and I’m not even halfway through. At this point, I have a deeper relationship with the bookmark than the actual plot.

Sometimes I read the same paragraph four times because someone needed a snack, a hug, a different snack, and then specifically the first snack again but in a different bowl.

Sometimes I don’t even remember what I read—just that I read it with determination.

But honestly? It still counts.

Because in between the chaos, the interruptions, and the suspiciously quiet moments that definitely mean someone is doing something illegal…

I’m still reading.

And if that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.