Two Damn Minutes…

I cook for them. I clean up after them. I make sure they get to school, help with projects, shuttle them to birthday parties, sleepovers, and whatever else is on the social calendar of the under-18 crowd. I’ve watched more animated movies in the last three years than I did during my entire childhood—and I was raised in the golden age of Disney, okay?

And yet. When we ask—just ask—for two minutes of their attention to watch a movie trailer? Something we thought they’d actually like? Crickets. Phones out. Eyes glazed over. Talking over it. Wandering away. I mean, what are we doing here?

Two. Damn. Minutes.

That’s all we wanted.

It wasn’t some emotionally meaningful moment or important life lesson. It was a movie preview. A funny, harmless, light thing we thought they’d enjoy. And they couldn’t even give us that. We ask them to sit still and focus for 120 seconds and it’s like we asked them to hike Everest barefoot.

And I get it. Kids are self-centered. Their brains are still under construction. The part of them that says “Wow, maybe I should be a decent human for two minutes” hasn’t fully come online yet. But when you’re the one constantly doing everything—from cooking, cleaning, helping with school, wiping down gross counters, watching kid movies for the 27th time, folding their laundry, and waking up early to get them to school—and they can’t give you their attention for a trailer?

It feels personal. Even if it’s not.

Let’s add some extra seasoning here: I had just finished hiding Easter eggs for them, with money in them. Not candy. Not dollar-store trinkets. Cold, hard cash. And the day before that? I was making bath bombs with the youngest because she asked me to. And I said yes. Like I always do.

Meanwhile, that same youngest one is working on developing her “sense of humor,” which currently exists somewhere between confused insult comic and teenage mean girl in training. And we do try to coach her, gently. “Honey, I know you’re trying to be funny and sarcastic, but maybe say it like this instead—because what you just said wasn’t funny. It was rude.”

Example? I’m folding laundry in the bathroom (living the dream), and she walks in and barks, “Can you get out?!”

I look at her like, “Come again?”

“Get. Out,” she repeats, like she’s some kind of annoyed CEO and I’m the assistant who forgot her latte.

I respond calmly but firmly: “Oh no you don’t. Don’t talk to me like that.”

She pauses, shifts her tone immediately, and says, “I’m sorry. Can I use the bathroom please?”

Exactly. The fact that she immediately corrected herself tells me she knew what she was doing. This wasn’t a miss. It was a test.

And then there’s this gem: her dad was telling her a story about work, and she looked him straight in the eye and said, “Do I look like I care?”

I swear I almost levitated.

We jumped in right away. “No. Absolutely not. That’s not okay. How would it feel if we said that to you?” Cue the drama. She got upset. Quiet. “Fine,” she muttered.

Fast-forward to later that night. She’s doing math and proudly says, “Hey Stacey, look at this—I got all of it right!”

So I leaned in and said, “Do I look like I care?”

Her face fell. She got quiet. Sad.

Then I asked, “How did that make you feel?”

She said, “Not good.”

Exactly. That’s the point. And to her credit, she got it. She really did.

And just to be clear—they’re not my kids. I’m the girlfriend. My boyfriend has full custody, and for the last three years, I’ve shown up in every way I can. I’ve been the mystery reader in their classrooms, the craft helper at school parties, the vacation planner, the project coach, the early morning lunch-packer, and the late-night emotional support system. I’ve been there through meltdowns, milestones, school drama, and growing pains. I’ve taken them on road trips and beach hunts and theme park marathons—not because I have to, but because I want them to experience joy and memories and a version of family that feels secure. So yeah… when I ask for two minutes to watch a damn movie preview, I don’t think it’s too much.

So here’s where I land: I’m going to keep doing all the things I do, because I love them. I signed up for this chaotic, beautiful mess. But I’m also going to watch the movie trailer. I’m going to light a candle, pour a glass of wine (or 4), and watch the entire damn movie if I want to. With or without them.

Because sometimes the only person who’s going to clap for you… is you.

And that’s okay.

(But seriously—two minutes? Come on.)