Monday Morning Massacre: Grief, Chaos, and One Sticky Victim

So this morning starts off deceptively smooth. I had Elvis blasting—figuratively and literally rockin’ and rollin’—and I was feeling weirdly on top of things. I was on time, making Zuma’s lunch, living my best Monday morning life. But let’s be real: Mondays are trash, mornings are worse, and lately no day feels like my day. Still, I was doing it. Peanut butter, jelly, sandwich-making machine.

I wasn’t even mad that I wasn’t making the turkey sandwich we agreed on over the weekend—nope, the same turkey I dragged myself to the store for at 9 PM to get all the perfect ingredients like some kind of grocery martyr. This was a peanut butter-and-jelly morning. It just was.

Meanwhile, Zuma was in her room, grunting like a wounded animal, lights off, clearly battling the will to live. But hey, she was awake. Not quite vertical, but stirring. Good enough for me.

Now, here’s where things start to get… interesting. As I’m scraping the last bits of jelly out of the jar—mostly those horrifying chunks of strawberry—I was already a little irritated. I love strawberries, but nobody in their right mind wants a rogue fruit grenade in the middle of their sandwich. Disgusting. Childhood trauma, unlocked. So I call Zuma over, thinking we’re about to bond over how gross this jelly situation is.

But no. No, no, no. This kid, this angel, glances at the sandwich and instead of addressing the strawberry landmines like I expected, she says:

“That is entirely way too much peanut butter.”

I swear to God, something snapped. I could feel my soul leave my body and hang out on the ceiling to watch the carnage unfold. My jaw clenched. My eye twitched. I bit my lip so hard I might’ve drawn blood. My whole body locked up like I was on the edge of committing a federal crime against that sandwich—and yet, somewhere in the back of my mind, a rational voice whispered: “You did ask for her opinion.”

But this? This unsolicited critique on my peanut butter-to-jelly ratio? It was too much. I felt betrayed. Like I’d opened my heart, only to have it stomped on by a peanut butter-hating monster.

So what did I do? I flipped that peanut butter side onto the jelly side, locked eyes with that sandwich, and went full beast mode.

I. Murdered. That. Motherfucking. Sandwich.

I slammed it down with the fury of a thousand Mondays. Both hands. Boom. Smashed it into oblivion. Jelly splattered. Peanut butter oozed out the sides, crawling up my hands like it was trying to escape the massacre. That sandwich didn’t stand a chance.

It was a crime scene on the cutting board. A sticky, mushy war zone. By the time I was done, it looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to a picnic.

And there I was—breathing heavy, hands covered in peanut butter and jelly, standing over my lifeless victim like a sandwich assassin.

Meanwhile, Zuma is just standing by the door, watching this whole disaster unfold in stunned silence. She didn’t say a word. Smart girl. Probably feared for her life.

And then, in the midst of this unholy peanut butter rage, I spun around and screamed at her—in the highest, fastest pitch imaginable—like Kevin Hart on stage mid-rant:
“YOU KNOW WHAT? FINE! MAKE YOUR OWN DAMN SANDWICH!”

I swear, dogs two blocks away probably heard it. My voice went from zero to batshit in 1.5 seconds. If I wasn’t so mad, it would’ve been impressive. I threw my hands in the air like I was about to catch the Holy Spirit, and Zuma just slowly backed away like, Yeah… this lady has lost it.

I knew I was overreacting. I knew it was stupid. Hell, I even knew that I asked for her input. But the fact that she skipped right over the jelly and went straight to the peanut butter? Unforgivable.

As I stormed off to clean up the evidence of my crime against the sandwich, muttering under my breath, I heard Zuma, in her perfect deadpan delivery, say:
“I would have eaten the sandwich.”

I stopped in my tracks for a second, jelly still sticking to my fingers. Of course she would have. That sandwich didn’t deserve the death I gave it, but it was too late now. The damage was done, and I had already declared war on lunch.

As I stood there, staring at the mess, I could feel Kingston’s presence in the room, like he was silently watching the whole thing with his little grin, waiting for me to get it together. I could almost hear him saying, “You know you’re better than this, Mom.” He wasn’t judging me—he never would—but I knew he was waiting for me to make it right. Just patiently hanging out in the background, waiting for me to cool off and realize that smashing a sandwich isn’t how I wanted the day to go.

That’s the thing about grief. It sneaks in when you least expect it. You think you’re fine—hell, you’ve even got Elvis playing—and then suddenly a peanut butter-and-jelly sandwich takes you out at the knees. One tiny thing tips the scale, and before you know it, you’re holding back tears while covered in peanut butter, feeling like you’ve lost the plot.

By the time we got in the car, I was barely holding it together. We usually listen to Taylor Swift—our little routine—and on those days when only Justin Bieber’s “Ghost” plays, I know it’s Kingston dropping in to remind us he’s with us. But not today. Not after the peanut butter carnage. No, today Kingston had a different agenda.

The first song that pops up? Michael Jackson’s “Bad.” Not even blasting—just there, quietly judging me from the screen. “Oh, okay, Kingston. I see you,” I thought. I’m bad, huh? Yeah, I know.

Next? Britney Spears. “Circus.”
Circus. As if Kingston was calling me out: “Mom, you’re a whole damn clown show.”

Mind your business, Kingston, I muttered in my head. I could feel him smirking at me from wherever he is, thinking, Yeah, I’m calling you out. What are you gonna do about it?

And then the final song comes on: “Be Kind” by Marshmello. And that’s when the message hits me—Kingston’s not just messing with me. He’s talking to me:

“I know you’re choking on your fears… but I’m right here. I will stay by your side every night.”

The lyrics wrap around me like a hug I didn’t know I needed. Kingston knew I’d been carrying too much—anger, sadness, exhaustion—and the song felt like him saying, “It’s okay, Mom. I know it’s hard for you, but it’s not fair to carry it all by yourself.”

When the chorus hit—“You can be kind to the one that you love”—I lost it. Right there in the car, the tears started to flow. Because even in the middle of my ridiculous, chaotic, sandwich-smashing morning, Kingston was reminding me that it’s okay to have these moments. It’s okay to get it wrong. But I also have to remember to be kind to myself—and to the people I love—even when the peanut butter is too thick and life feels like a circus.

Kingston wasn’t just teasing me this morning; he was guiding me. Telling me that even when grief makes me lose it over a sandwich, I don’t have to be perfect. I just have to keep showing up. Because I’m not alone—not in the car, not in the kitchen, and not in life. Kingston is still here, right where he said he’d be, staying by my side every night.

And that’s the thing about grief. It’s unpredictable, messy, and sometimes sandwiches will fuck up your whole day. But even when the peanut butter fights back and the circus feels like too much, Kingston’s magic is always there, reminding me to be kind. To others, yes—but mostly, to myself.