Turns Out, I’m Not Italian. But Honestly, That’s the Least of My Chaos...

 

Intro

Look, if there’s one thing I’ve learned about family, it’s that nothing ever goes the way you think it will.

For years, I confidently believed I was Italian. The traditions, the food, the slightly dramatic hand gestures. 🤌Then one day, I found out my mom was adopted, and BAM!! I was not Italian anymore. 

Turns out, identity is weird.

Turns out, family is even weirder.

I didn’t meet my dad until I was 25, so growing up, I never had the full picture of where I came from. And honestly? I’m still figuring it out.

But Forget Identity.....Let’s Talk About Survival Mode

At 31, I’m a stay-at-home mom managing two kids, full-time caregiving for my grandfather-in-law, and a husband who can’t resist adding to our household zoo—leaving me in charge of an ever-expanding parade of pets.

I swear, every time I turn around, there’s a new creature added to the family. He works full-time to provide for us, which means while he’s off being a responsible adult, I’m over here wrangling kids and feeding a small zoo.

At this point, I’ve accepted my fate. I am not just a mom. I am an unpaid caregiver, short-order cook, and now, a reluctant zookeeper.

Some days, I’m crushing it like a superhero. Other days, I’m sitting in my car, on the verge of tears, because the chicken’s still frozen, and dinner has officially become a mystery.

Caregiving teaches you patience (sometimes). It teaches you adaptability (always). It teaches you that love doesn’t look like fancy speeches. It looks like constant appointment reminders, making sure meds are given, and figuring out why the dog is suddenly limping,  why the cat started puking this week, or wondering if the newest addition (baby squirrel) will survive, oh and why there is a bat in my cats mouth, INSIDE THE HOUSE!

New "Rehabber"

BAT- that was safely released

It’s messy, exhausting, and deeply meaningful.

So, What Do I Do With All This?

I started writing.

I write about the traditions I’m holding onto. The ones that actually matter. I write about the ones I’ve let go of because, honestly, some of them were just stressful for no reason. I write about parenting, marriage, family, and the absolutely unhinged rollercoaster that is adulthood.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that family isn’t about who you came from, it’s about who shows up.

That’s the legacy I’m building. The one my kids will carry forward, the one that proves love isn’t about labels, heritage, or perfection. It’s about showing up, in whatever form that takes.

So, welcome to my corner of the internet, where I overshare, embrace the chaos, and attempt to keep my household functioning while living among a growing number of furry, feathered, and (probably someday) scaly housemates. 

Messy, Real, and Ours: My Family Story

 My family is loud, loving, and unapologetically real. We live in a house that’s never truly quiet, filled with laughter, occasional chaos, and moments that remind me that perfection is overrated. We are messy, imperfect, and deeply connected—and that’s exactly how I like it.

Meet the Family

• My husband: The fiery one, the protector, the one who feels everything deeply and reacts just as intensely. He’s passionate, sometimes stubborn, but always present in his own way.
• My kids: The energy in the house—the sibling duo that can go from fighting over crayons to hugging within seconds. They remind me daily that chaos and love are two sides of the same coin.
• Me: The one trying to balance it all—wife, mom, caregiver, and storyteller. I’m learning to embrace the mess and find beauty in the everyday moments.

The Beautiful Chaos: What Family Looks Like in My Home

   Family, in our house, isn’t just about picture-perfect moments. It’s about the mess, the noise, and the undeniable love woven into everyday chaos.

• It looks like… an explosion of toys across the floor, mismatched socks, shoes scattered by the front door no matter how many times I tell everyone to put them away, a kitchen counter crowded with half-finished projects, and my husband pacing, fired up over something completely trivial but undeniably important to him.
• It sounds like… my kids shrieking over who had the toy first, my husband’s intense voice calling out for order, me trying to intervene while simultaneously stirring dinner, and somehow, through it all, the occasional bursts of laughter that remind me we’re doing okay.
• It feels like… exhaustion mixed with fierce love, patience tested to its limits, and a deep knowing that even in the hardest moments, we’re building something real.

    Some days, it’s survival mode. The kids are screaming about who touched whose stuff, my husband’s fiery frustration fills the room, and I’m standing in the middle of it all with dinner boiling over on the stove. Other days, it’s all quiet chaos—random shoes scattered across the house, impromptu wrestling matches on the couch, and me frantically searching for a coffee mug that somehow got abducted by the kids. Every day feels like a beautiful mess, full of moments that range from hilariously absurd to deeply exhausting, but somehow, we always find our way back to love.

It’s in the wild debates over whether ranch dressing belongs on eggs (it doesn’t, for the record 😖), in the spontaneous dance parties in the living room, and in the fiery energy my husband brings that somehow anchors us even when it feels overwhelming. It’s imperfect, unpredictable, and occasionally downright chaotic. But at the end of every day—whether I’m scrubbing permanent marker off the walls or laughing at the complete circus we’ve created—I know this: this is home, this is us, and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.