Walking Past the Tangles
My son Luka, his wife Rosa, and their three babies—three-year-old Junior, 18-month-old Asher, and six-month-old Rosea—currently live with us. When I’m in my work area doing my daily TikTok LIVE, the chaos drifts up from the kitchen and family room like background music: running feet, balls bouncing off walls, cars launching over the upstairs railing and smacking the floor like tiny plastic stunt performers.
Yesterday, after finishing a LIVE, I headed upstairs into an unexpected quiet. Everyone had tucked themselves away in their room, cozy in their little nest. I walked into my bedroom, turned toward the bathroom… and stopped in my tracks at the doorway of the walk-in closet.
There, on the carpet, sat a tangled heap of necklaces.
Years ago, I turned a large window screen into a jewelry holder. It hangs in our master bath, covered in earrings. Little cup hooks line the bottom for my necklaces… many, many necklaces. I stared at the mess and wondered if the whole collection fell or just a portion. A quick glance around the corner answered that: only the bottom row of hooks sat empty. The heap held about twenty necklaces—beads, chains, charms, the whole knotted party—resting there like it planned to stay awhile.
And now, more than 24 hours later, it’s still there.
Here’s the funny part: I’m actually an expert untangler. Bring me a necklace with a knot and I slip into a calm, almost meditative rhythm—jiggle, tug, pull, repeat. One tiny opening appears, then another, until the whole thing gives way. I was the same as a kid. Remember slinkies? Somehow those metal coils always turned themselves into steel pretzels. Friends would hand me their mangled toys, and I’d sit and tease the mess apart until the slinky bounced back to life.
But untangling a pile of jewelry—or a slinky—is one thing. Untangling real life? That’s where I get myself in trouble.
I look at my oldest son’s life—the noise, the exhaustion, the sheer volume of tiny humans—and something in me automatically wants to fix it. Craig and I talk with him and Rosa, gently offering strategies for problem-solving and partnership. I read books to the kids, soothe Asher when he melts down, and try to create pockets of calm in the middle of their beautiful, chaotic storm.
And yet, in the middle of all this, I’m aware of something important: my mothers-in-law always stepped back and let me find my own way. They didn’t hover, advise, or critique. (My own mother happily filled that opening with gusto.) I’ve told Rosa the same thing: if she wants help—real help, with a specific problem—I’m here. Otherwise, I’m not her mom, and I have zero interest in stepping into that role.
So the heap of necklaces stays put. I walk past it every time I grab a sweater and think, “I should fix that.”
But I don’t.
Maybe that little pile is exactly the reminder I need: not every tangle belongs to me. Not every knot needs my steady hands. Sometimes life drops a mess at your feet, and the best thing you can do is breathe, step around it, and let the people who live in the chaos discover their own rhythm of jiggle-tug-pull.
The necklaces will wait.
They aren’t going anywhere.
And my son and his little family? They’re learning, growing, stumbling, untangling—one soft pull at a time.
I’m here. I love them. I cheer them on.
And if they ever ask for help?
Well… I still know my way around a knot.
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