It was one of those mornings where the coffee just wasn’t doing its damn job. The kids were already in full chaos mode—Max had somehow managed to get peanut butter in his hair (explain it to me, Max. Explain it), and Lily was staging a full-scale meltdown over her belief that “queens don’t wear jeans.”
Fine. Whatever. Let her wear the princess dress to the grocery store. I pick my battles.
Between trying to detangle Max’s hair (impossible) and searching for my car keys (which were in the fridge, because my life is a sitcom), my phone buzzed.
Ryan.
So, this thing. Whatever it is. It’s been a few weeks now. A few weeks of easy, effortless conversations. A few weeks of “Hey, how was your day?” texts that actually feel… nice. Normal. Comfortable.
Last night, after a bedtime routine that felt more like a hostage negotiation, Ryan called. He started talking about his parents—about how they live in some ridiculously scenic little village near Barcelona. Picture rolling hills, vineyards, stone farmhouses. Masias, he called them.
Masias. I had no idea what that was.
But the way he described them? Ancient stone walls, wooden beams, courtyards where the sun spills in first thing in the morning. The kind of place where you wake up to the smell of fresh bread and the sound of cicadas.
And that’s how I ended up in a masias for sale in Spain rabbit hole for, oh, about an hour today. That site has an entire selection of them—gorgeous old country houses just sitting there, waiting for someone to move in and start a new life.
And for approximately 45 minutes, I was that person.
Mentally redecorating my hypothetical masia, imagining the kids running through an olive grove instead of destroying my living room. Deciding whether I’d get goats or just stick to a couple of lazy farm dogs. (Goats. Obviously.)
Then reality called. Loudly.
“MOM! COME SEE OUR FORT!”
Max was yelling, Lily was declaring herself Queen of Blanketopia, and Jack was attempting to convince them both that he was a fire-breathing dragon.
I sighed, closed the laptop, and went to join them.
Because honestly? Dreams are nice.
But this? This wild, chaotic, peanut-butter-in-the-hair life? This is real. And I love it.
Still… maybe there’s room for both.
Maybe one day I’ll wake up in a sun-drenched masia, coffee in hand, with the kids chasing chickens through a Spanish courtyard. Maybe I’ll never set foot in Spain.
Either way, I’m here for whatever’s next.
Even if “next” is just cleaning peanut butter out of Max’s hair for the third time today.