Fired by My Baby CEO at 3AM

I used to think being a mom would look like this:

Sunlight pouring in through the window, my baby calmly nestled in my arms while I hummed lullabies and sipped a hot cup of tea. The world, perfectly soft and peaceful.

What I actually got was this:

3AM, a baby CEO in a Mickey Mouse onesie screaming at me and flinging pumpkin puree at my face.

I haven’t slept in 37 hours.

My back feels like I went to war. My soul left the group chat. The coffee machine betrayed me for the third time this week.

With the last drop of energy left in me, I gently asked:

"Would you like some milk? Want mommy? Or should I book you a rocket straight to the moon?"

He screamed louder, like I just announced that Bluey got cancelled.

I tried rocking him to sleep. He slapped me.

I sang. He cried so hard his voice cracked.

I put him down. He collapsed like I dropped him into lava.

Then he looked at me.

Calmly. Coldly.

And then—he smiled.

While pooping.

It was in that moment I understood: I was fired.

Not the soft, gentle "You've worked hard, take a break" kind of fired.

The brutal "You're terminated" kind of fired.

And I got fired by an 8-month-old baby CEO who eats cardboard and drinks bathwater.

Before becoming a mom, I used to judge other moms:

"Why do they always look sleep-deprived?"

"Why do their cars always smell like old cheese?"

Now I get it.

Because at 3AM, we’re not sleeping—we’re negotiating with tiny, irrational monsters.

Our lives aren’t measured in hours, they’re measured in "reheated coffee attempts" and "diaper number count."

Sometimes we cry silently in the bathroom, wipe away the tears, and walk out smiling while slicing bananas.

Before I had him, my to-do list said: "Drink matcha, meditate, journal."

Now my to-do list says: "Don’t cry in front of the baby, find the other sock, finish yesterday’s coffee."

I once dreamed of reading bedtime stories by candlelight, gently rocking my baby to sleep.

Now I read shampoo bottle ingredients in the bathroom while rocking myself and questioning life.

Last week, I Googled: "How to quit being a mom."

Google told me: "Make a strong coffee and have a good cry."

Honestly? Too accurate.

You ask me what real parenting is?

It’s holding a screaming baby with your left arm, stirring mac and cheese with your right, and using your foot to shut the fridge.

It’s hearing him giggle in his sleep and wondering: did he dream of me… or his bottle?

It’s saying "I love you" after just nine minutes of sleep and an unhealthy amount of caffeine rage.

Motherhood isn’t magic. It’s an unpaid, no-break, pee-when-you-can survival game.

He fired me last night.

But this morning, he crawled into my lap, gnawed his toes, and mumbled: "Mama~"

So I rehired myself.

And gave myself a raise—a venti iced latte.

And I quietly whispered to myself:

"I’ll keep showing up to work , even if my boss only screams, giggles, and has never worn pants."

Since becoming a mom, I realized I’m not really a mother—I’m the CEO of a 24/7 unpaid household survival company.

My job titles include: COO, emotional waste manager, bottle sterilization expert, and night shift supervisor.

We have only one client—high demand, poor communication, frequent leaks, never says thank you, only screams at me.

Sometimes, I really want to quit.

But I can’t.

Because only this client runs to me at my lowest, grabs my leg, and looks at me with that innocent sparkle in his eyes like he’s saying:

“You’re my everything.”

(Though what actually comes out is “Guuuuhhh~” with a bit of snot.)

My life is simple now.

Sleep is a miracle.

Washing my hair is a holiday.

Going to the convenience store alone is an all-expenses-paid vacation.

I used to be a woman with time, hot tea, and big dreams.

Now I’m wiping the floor yelling, “WHO IS EATING WET WIPES AGAIN?!”

But I know my soul is evolving.

Through this whole motherhood ride, I keep thinking I can’t do it anymore—but somehow, I do.

Fueled by dead eyes.

Fueled by cold coffee.

Fueled by those tiny smiles that melt me back to life.

Turns out I wasn’t fired.

I was just... learning a new way to love, to live, to grow—slowly, messily, beautifully.

Disclaimer:

This story is based on my real-life experience as a mother navigating parenthood.

The illustrations and parts of the writing were created with the help of AI tools,

but every emotion, every meltdown, and every laugh in this piece is 100% my own.