I’m drafting this blog in my “office,” which is also a pantry/art supply room (AKA, the place where my kids dump their junk). The dog and my youngest daughter are fighting under my feet. I’m typing as fast as I can, because I won’t remember any of this tomorrow. My regular life is chaos, and my horse life makes it crazier—or, as my husband puts it, “more complicated”—but somehow, it’s also where I catch those priceless blink-and-you-miss-it moments. 

Except sometimes, especially after a week like this, I ask myself why I’m so committed to this horse life. I think it’s because the stress seems to fade faster than the laughter does.

My week in review, which began when my husband ditched me for work travel, leaving me solo to juggle five kids, ponies and the general insanity of our family. 

While he “suffered” during his first night away in a quiet hotel room, I chugged wine as the kids engaged in bedtime avoidance. I found myself wondering whether I could survive the days ahead. And still, even in the middle of madness, I found myself laughing—which has to mean something, right? 

Monday hit like a storm—literally. Rain poured down as I shoved the girls out the door onto the bus with mismatched clothes and wild bedheads. Then I sprinted down to our barn, praying the neighbors didn’t notice my dog-print pajamas peeking out from my coat. I swapped winter blankets for sheets, chucked hay into turnouts (half the flakes landing in my hair and in my bra), and led the ponies to their pastures. I meant to wear my barn boots but instead shoved my feet into my “normal people” shoes. I only realized my mistake after feeling the squish of mud soaking my socks. And yet, there’s something oddly comforting about those soggy socks and hay-stuffed bras; they’re little reminders of this life we’ve chosen.

After thoroughly soaking myself refilling water buckets, I dashed back to the house where my youngest was plopped in front of the TV. After a time-consuming debate over removing her pajamas—I ultimately convinced her that wearing something is preferable to nudity at preschool—we were late to school. Again. Honestly, the school is used to it. They’re also used to laughing with me when I show up on days the kids are off from school. And when I forget to show up for pick up. Or show up smelly or sprinkled with hay. My brain is so full of kid stuff and horse stuff, there’s no room for checking-the-calendar stuff or personal hygiene stuff. What a mess! But it’s our mess, and somehow there’s laughter woven into every stinky bit.

Later that day, I rushed down to meet the vet. We were halfway through X-rays when the bus deposited my elementary-aged girls onto the driveway. They burst into the barn, and I shoved them back out, saving them from radiation exposure. I discussed our pony’s stifle while concurrently yelling at my girls through the barn doors to go up to the house for a healthy snack: “Do not eat a tub of ice cream!” Luckily, I love our vet, and I’m happy to be learning from her even if it means relinquishing control over my girls’ after-school sugar intake. There’s something deeply satisfying about those moments where the chaos and competence collide like, yeah, this is nutso, but I’m doing it.

By midweek, I was already dragging when I wrangled two of my girls to their riding lesson with their younger sister in tow (because, yes, though we have ponies at home, I think it’s important they get a perspective other than mom’s). My 5-year-old daughter was wearing jods one size too small and boots three sizes too big (no wonder she can’t do heels down) and a helmet that didn’t fit at all. The instructor gave me a quizzical look and chuckled as she swapped out her helmet, but hey, we were on time. The girls loved every minute. Their giggles fill me with the kind of joy that cuts through my zombie state. Their smiles on the way home carried more weight than any to-do list ever could.

We got home past our normal dinner time, and everyone was “starving.” We didn’t bother changing clothes; I forgot about the epic amount of hair we’d swiped off with shedding blades earlier that evening. Luckily, I’m the only one who noticed chestnut hair floating in the drinks. The kids were too busy shoveling spaghetti in their faces. Gross, but I’ll still take it as a win for horse mom! 

Like a runaway steam train, the week rushed on. Fence posts were propped up. A halter went missing in the paddock for the 10th time. A turnout sheet was ripped to shreds. Orthodontist appointments and laundry for days. Throught it all, I attempted to ride ponies while my youngest daughter ran around the field singing at the top of her lungs, accompanied by the honks of the mating Canada geese next door. My plan to sneak in a quick shower was thwarted by my little girl asking, “Mamma, can I help feed?”  Of course, but that meant feeding took twice as long, my shower window passed, and I had to be gross for the entirety of the day. But those are the small moments I’ll remember when the barn is quiet again.

By Thursday evening, the wheels were officially off. I watched my oldest ride a pony from the kitchen window, periodically running outside to shout instructions like “lengthen your reins,” while microwaving ramen. I felt like I had everything under control until suddenly I remembered my son’s soccer tryouts. Attempting to brush the dust off my jacket, pulling a fistful of hay and three horse treats out of the pockets while fishing for my keys, I knew I stank, there was hay in my bra (again), but I was still laughing.

And you know what? Even if you aren’t living this exact brand of chaos—maybe you had the good sense to choose better birth control or board your horses?—I bet you can relate. Because somehow, you’re squeezing horses into your jam-packed life. And at times, it feels hard and downright insane. So why do we do this to ourselves?

It’s not about perfectly behaved kids and ponies or the flawless, curated lives you see on social media. It’s about muddy sneakers and hay in everything. Proof we’re living it. We’re learning to fall apart, laugh through the mess, then get back up. We’re letting go of the little stuff and choosing what matters. And I’m choosing this crazy, imperfect life for my family.

So when it’s late, and the house smells like pony mixed with forgotten noodles, remember, the chaos won’t last forever. But the joy and laughter you find in the middle of it all? That’s yours to keep.

Jamie Sindell has an MFA in creative writing from the University of Arizona and has ridden and owned hunters on and off throughout her life. She is a mom of five kids, ages 4 to 15. She and her family reside at Wish List Farm, where her horse-crazy girls play with their pony and her son and husband play with the tractor.