The Hoody Hostage Situation

There I was, minding my own business, trying to cook dinner like a normal, functioning adult (already ambitious for a Thursday). I had something sizzling on the stove - a brave attempt at a “healthy meal” that would, inevitably, end up charred beyond recognition.

Enter my twin teenage daughters.

They arrive like two rival gang leaders from a mid-2000s teen drama: one wearing the hoody - you know the one - the sacred, oversized, fits-every-occasion, probably-has-its-own-Instagram account hoody. The other sister? Unarmed but seething, ready to stage a full coup.

And just like that, the kitchen transforms into an emotional Thunderdome.

All while I’m trying to remember if I already added the garlic or if I just thought about adding garlic.

Twin #1: “You always steal my stuff! I literally bought that with MY money!”

Twin #2: “OMG, get over yourself! You don't even wear it!”

Me: “Who wants broccoli?” (ignored, obviously)

I try to referee. Big mistake. Now I’m the enemy, apparently supporting "the wrong side," which changes every 30 seconds. One of them threatens to move out (to live with Papa), the other threatens to "expose" a group chat. Meanwhile, I realize I left the pan unattended and smoke is billowing like I'm opening a haunted house attraction.

In the chaos, I forget what meal I was even making. Salmon? Kebabs? Air? Who knows. The smoke alarm starts blaring its shrill judgment, and suddenly I’m waving a dish towel like I’m signaling a plane for help.

I abandon the burnt dinner (RIP, whatever that was) and open UberEats. Why pretend I’m still the kind of mom who makes "balanced, home-cooked meals"? Tonight’s dinner is sponsored by “some guy named Luis on a scooter.”

Dinner arrives, and we all magically forget we were at DEFCON 1 fifteen minutes ago. We sit on the couch in suspicious silence, shoveling food into our mouths while rewatching Stranger Things and pretending we’re emotionally stable.

Because at the end of the day, between the PMS, menopause brain fog, the hostage-level fashion arguments, and the endless hormonal WWE matches… we’re all just doing our best not to burn the house down.

So here’s to motherhood, menopause, and the magical power of UberEats - the real MVP of every twin hoody hostage crisis.  Where would we be without them, and the sweet, fleeting moments of truce that come with french fries and shared Netflix trauma bonding.