Let’s just lay it out: diving headfirst into Wife Life has shown me there are plenty of things I excel at, but some not so much.
If I were ever to participate in the Olympics of Daily Domestic Disasters, I’d be on the podium, gold medal around my neck, proudly sporting a mismatched outfit from the laundry I outsourced.
Because, let’s be honest, deciphering laundry tags is harder than most things they teach in school.
On more occasions, than I’d like to admit, I’ve pondered if the laundromat staff might secretly be betting on what I’ll forget next.
Between the tiny socks and those ‘priceless’ kiddo drawings that inadvertently get a wash and spin, they must think my pockets are portals to Narnia.
Maybe they’re right; after all, who finds a Lego, a crayon, and a half-eaten cookie in the same load?
As if navigating laundry mishaps wasn’t enough, there’s no better testament to my wife life than turning a burnt dinner into a gourmet event.
This post is wife life decoded: it’s not all about aprons.
Mess Menu
How I Turned Head Injuries into Headway
Navigating wife life for me has been, well, a touch more unconventional than most.
Thanks to orthostatic hypotension, I’ve had the unique pleasure of acquiring a collection of head injuries.
They’re like my own personal, unwanted trading cards.
These injuries, in all their glory, bestowed upon me short-term memory loss and an ADD diagnosis that’s more generous than any multi-buy deal at a store.
But every cloud has a silver lining, and mine came with four paws.
Enter my four-legged, tail-wagging partner-in-crime that I’m training to keep me upright and to fetch slippers, because, priorities.
If my past posts didn’t spill the beans already, Martha Stewart and I aren’t exactly doppelgängers.
My pre-marital counseling was less “I Do” and more “I Probably Won’t.”
Kudos to Toné for buying tickets to this one-woman show.
While I might not be the speed-cleaning champion, what I lack in housekeeping gymnastics, I make up for in sheer audacity.
I’ve been the wind beneath my husband’s career wings, ticking off our financial bucket list way ahead of schedule, and stitching together family travel plans that would make most travel agents blink twice.
So while my memory might sometimes betray me, my visionary spirit doesn’t.
Whether it’s struggling with my YouTube thumbnails, penning another children’s book, or hunting for the next real estate rental—
I’m forever the dreamer, always the creative, and sometimes, the perfectly imperfect wife.
Flawed, Fierce, and Not Fitting In As A Mom
In today’s world, the number of hats we women wear is practically a collection.
We’re supposed to play chef, chauffeur, housekeeper, teacher, breadwinner, and – oh yes – always be presentable.
And don’t even get me started on the data.
Statistics do show that women are more likely to do the cooking compared to their husbands.
But if you ever looked at my record, you’d rethink the stereotype real fast.
While I’m divulging all of my less-than-perfect moments, there’s a story I have to share.
One evening, the kitchen was starting to resemble the aftermath of a failed chemistry experiment.
Mya took one look at the “dinner” and asked, “Mommy, why does it look like that?”
I stood there, spatula in hand, feeling like I’d been handed a surprise pop quiz I hadn’t studied for.
In the grand scheme of ‘Life Skills I Should Teach My Kids,’ was this charbroiled disaster going to be Exhibit A?
I couldn’t help but think of the Proverbs 31 woman.
You know, that early-century overachiever who probably whipped up five-course feasts without breaking a sweat?
Meanwhile, I’m here making charcoal chic again.
I started to wonder, thanks to that one another slightly singed dish, if I was setting the bar too low for future generations.
Had I unintentionally ushered in the era of “Burnt is the New Black” for my family’s culinary expectations?
As Toné waded into the culinary disaster zone, presumably weighing the pros and cons of ordering pizza, once again, I was grappling with the weight of ‘traditional’ roles.
Here I was, centuries removed from biblical times, yet momentarily stuck on a feeling of not measuring up to age-old mom and wife life standards.
The thought was as hard to digest as that chicken might be.
When My Mailbox Knows Me Better
Ah, the era where a subscription can almost guarantee you instant talent.
Case in point: Hello Fresh.
They didn’t toss any money my way for a shout-out, but for half a decade, they had me under the illusion that I was some sort of kitchen maestro.
Thanks to them, I nearly nailed the great soup spoon versus ladle debate.
But as all good things come to an end, so did my subscription.
Flashback to my seafood gumbo encore.
I’d whipped up this dish before and, not to toot my own horn, but it was a hit.
Toné and my parents practically held a parade in its honor.
But fast forward to my pregnancy with our second, and let’s just say the culinary landscape shifted.
Perhaps it was the pregnancy brain, or maybe the shrimp plotted against me that day.
But when I turned to Mya, expecting her to offer the usual constructive critique, she said: “It tastes like trash.”
Cue the Adele remix:
♫ Hello from the kitchen floor, recalling the gumbo days of yore.
Husband believed we’d cope, but now, I’m losing hope,
Kids now dread what’s on their dish, that’s certainly not my wish,
Hello Fresh, I need you back, can I please resubscribe? ♪
I Wasn’t Born With A Spatula
All said and done, the burnt dinners and misadventures in the kitchen led to some wife life soul-searching.
Just because I wasn’t the picture-perfect version of a “domestic goddess” didn’t mean I wasn’t adding value to my family.
My husband, Toné, in his infinite wisdom, stepped in when the kitchen experiments went awry.
And that’s what marriage is, isn’t it?
A partnership.
The point isn’t for both partners to be equally adept at everything, but to lift each other up when one falls short.
🥴 Another day, another #SpilledMilkMOMent because sometimes the mess is actually the message. 🥛✨
Follow me on Instagram @VictoriaVadenKing.
If the modern marriage perspective tells us anything, it’s that we should aid our spouse where they falter, be it cooking, parenting, or just listening.
So, while burnt chicken might be on the menu occasionally (or frequently)…
It’s these small imperfections that make our lives authentic, relatable, and let’s be real—absolutely hilarious in retrospect.
That was my take on the everyday wife life.
In our household, we value love, laughter, and the occasional takeaway pizza over gourmet dinners.
And I wouldn’t have it any other way.
If you’ve ever turned a kitchen fail into a family joke or lost the battle against a glitter bomb courtesy of your toddler, then you’re in the right place!
Realistic Relatable Posts
- How Inconsistency Made Me a Terrible Mom
- The Messy Spouse’s Guide to Barely Surviving the Kitchen
- Survive Tears, Tantrums, and Times Square with Kids
