I drafted this post a while ago. Then life happened — and the irony is that life happening is exactly what the post is about. So here we go.

It has been, in a word, nuts.

A while back, my career coach asked me, “Do you like the metaphor of balls in the air?”

Yeah. I do. And I have a lot of them right now.

This Week

This week has Mother’s Day tea at preschool for two of my kids. Mother’s Day with my in-laws on Saturday. Mother’s Day with my parents on Sunday. My husband’s birthday on Saturday — for which my kids want to make an ice cream cake, and a birthday dinner for him with friends on Friday. It’s also teacher appreciation week and as preschool board president, that also falls on my plate. 

Oh, and the septic guys came today.

And, I couldn’t sleep last night, so I got up at 4:30 in the morning and got on my computer, because I know how much work I’m going to miss this week between the tea, the doctor’s appointment, the cake, the in-laws, and everything else.

Oh — and one of the business ventures my husband and I had been exploring turned up enough red flags that we’ve quietly pulled back.

So yeah. This is the post on a quiet Tuesday.

Home Is a Lot. Work Is Heavier.

Here’s the honest thing I have to say: the balls I’m most worried about dropping are the ones at work. Not the ones at home.

I know that sounds wrong to say out loud as a mom. Let me explain.

Don’t misread me. Home is a lot. As a mom, you carry the mental weight of a household the way a CFO carries a budget. Nobody talks about the spreadsheet. They just notice when the numbers don’t add up.

It’s not just bringing the kids to the doctor — it’s making the appointment, knowing what questions to ask, remembering the follow-up. Four Mother’s Day celebrations in one week. An ice cream cake that has to actually get made. Teacher gifts. The septic guy.

But home, for all its weight, is known. I’ve been running that operation for years. I have the reps.

Work is where the new stuff lives. Work is where the stakes are moving, the projects are multiplying, and the list keeps getting longer. That’s where the ball-drop anxiety actually lives.

What I’m Trying

I cannot believe I’m typing this, but: I’m reorganzing my entire garage. In between meetings, when I need to step away from my computer or the AI agents I’m working with, I go down to the garage and move boxes, sort tools, throw stuff out. People have asked me why I’d take this on right now. Honestly? Because moving a box from one shelf to another is the only ball I can fully control today.

And, the hardest one, I’ve started delegating. I know. The audacity. Asking the woman who refuses to let a rubber ball (more on this in a second) hit the floor to suddenly hand things off? Yes. Reluctantly. With twitches. Because I’ve realized that holding all of it myself is its own kind of dropped ball.

I Reject the Rubber Ball Theory

I know the rest of the metaphor. Some balls are glass. Some are rubber. If a rubber one drops, it bounces. No harm done.

I reject that.

I am not okay with letting anything fall. Not the glass ones. Not the rubber ones. Not the ones filled with feathers. A dropped ball is a dropped ball, regardless of what it’s made of.

This week is hard. I’m tired. Some of it isn’t fun in the moment. I want to be honest about that — not paint over it. But everything on my plate is on it for a reason, and I love most of those reasons. The kids. The work. The husband. The Board. The organization.

If anybody from work is reading this: I’m not overwhelmed. I’m enjoying myself. I’m just figuring out how to organize all of this the same way I figured out how to organize my pantry. Every jar found a home. Every ball will find a hand.

I’ll keep moving boxes. I’ll keep the list moving. I’ll learn to delegate without flinching.

Nothing’s hitting the floor. Not on my watch.

Every ball is glass.