Farm Boots and Clorox

A Morning of Glory, Grit, and Getting It Done

Rob left for work at six. I woke up with a migraine roaring between my temples and brain fog thick enough to swim through. Getting out of bed felt impossible. So I didn’t. Not right away. I started with my one-small-step rule.

Before tea can be earned, the mug has to be clean.
Before that—the dishwasher needs loading.


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Round 1: One Small Step, One Clean Kingdom

I loaded the dishwasher just to clear a spot for my cup, and before I knew it, the whole kitchen counter had been cleared too. With a quick wipe down, I was staring at the abyss of pots in the sink, realizing it would be easier not to look at them anymore—and to have a spot for my dirty teacup when I finished drinking my morning tea. So, the pots were scrubbed, and since the kitchen was basically clean, I swept the floor to polish it off. But then I needed a quiet place to sit, which led to a clean living room—all because of one lonely mug. Sometimes, momentum smells like steeping lavender London fog.


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Round 2: Pee-to-Power Cleaning Routine

I felt that familiar nudge to pee and thought, not yet. Instead, I cleaned the bathroom like I was racing my own bladder. Counters—sparkling. Toilet—gleaming. Trash—gone. When I finally sat down, I did so in a sanctuary of my own making. Strategy. Timing. Dignity, with a splash of Clorox.


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With the house now oddly presentable, I finally sat with my tea and coaxed Nikolai into movement. That’s when Rob came home before our appointment for a “quick nap,” which usually meant I had time to spare—not a lot, but enough.

His alarm went off, and he mumbled something about two more minutes. He thought he still had the lead on the morning.

He didn’t.


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Two-Minute Blitz

I showered.
Shaved my legs like a ninja.
Deodorant. Real clothes. Product through my red hair like I had all the time in the world. (I didn’t, but I acted like it.)

Bag—snatched. Laptop—grabbed. Hair clip—locked and loaded.

By the time Rob stumbled toward the door, dazed and struggling to put on his second shoe, I was already sliding into the car. Cool. Calm. Composed.

In the car, I brushed my teeth, styled my hair, and did my makeup in the mirror like a woman who’d slept through the fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty—instead of a five-minute mama power snooze.


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Boss-Mode Toolkit: How I Pull This Off

None of it’s luck. It’s systems disguised as chaos.

Spare hair clip lives on my purse handle like a faithful sidekick.

Toothbrush and travel-size toothpaste hide in my makeup bag.

I don’t lug a glam case—just the essentials: foundation, blush, lipstick, mascara.

Dollar-Tree hand-wipe pouches are worth their weight in gold—yogurt spill, sticky kid fingers, all handled.

Add a travel facial-cleanser pouch too. It tucks in like it was meant to be there.

And always keep a folding hairbrush in your purse. You don’t want to meet somebody looking like you just chased your ass and lost a war with an electric fence.



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When we pulled into the parking lot, I looked like I’d had an hour to get ready. Rob looked like he was still wondering what century it was.

That’s farm-mom magic.
That’s brain-fog who? energy.
That’s I may not have slept, but I drink my power like some people drink energy drinks—with a teacup in my hand.

I didn’t just leave the house—I wrangled disaster into order like a gardener who rips the weeds out of her dahlia bed.