My eldest foster lad is back from uni. The “quiet life” I’d almost convinced myself I was enjoying has packed its bags. Good riddance, honestly.

He’s been struggling. After a lot of soul-searching, he made the call to come home. If I’m being straight with you, I have my own thoughts about the decision. I’m not entirely sure it’s the right one. But I’m completely, unconditionally on board with him. He weighed it up, he decided what his head needed, and he came home. That took more courage than staying would have. That’s all I need to know.

So. My house is upside down. My kitchen is a permanent disaster zone. And I’ve regained an additional loveable twat whose apparent life purpose is to torment me at every available opportunity. The cheek is relentless.

The Screen Divider Saga

There has been a territorial dispute.
Since he’s claimed half the living room as his bedroom at night, I thought I’d be genuinely helpful and buy a screen divider. A little privacy. A bit of dignity amidst the circus.
You’d have thought I’d suggested knocking the house down. Now, when I say the air turned several shades of blue, I want to be clear that I’m not talking about a teenage scowl and a bit of door-slamming. It was tense, properly tense, even as we navigated through it. But we did navigate. We talked it down, redirected, held steady. Exactly as planned.

Two days later, the thing is built and propped in the corner. It still receives the most committed death stare every single time he walks past, which in a small living room, is quite often.

It is just metal and fabric. But to him, clearly, it is the enemy.

I’m ignoring the protests. It’s there if he chooses to use it. That’s the end of that.
Family Is More Than DNA

Looking around at this lot, I’ve got my eldest heading for 25 this weekend, two lads both 19 and racing towards 20 this summer, and then there’s the youngest. Thirteen, full-on, and genuinely one of the most complex, funny, exhausting, brilliant people I’ve ever had the pleasure of being responsible for. Three out of the four are neurodivergent in various flavours, which means this house runs on a different kind of logic entirely. Loud logic. Creative logic. The kind of logic that means a screen divider can become a matter of genuine personal crisis.

Only two of them share my DNA. That’s just a detail.

People always get that old saying wrong. The full version reads: “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.” The bonds we choose, forged in the daily grind, shared meals, arguments about screen dividers, late-night chats, those are the ones that hold.

Every single one of them has a permanent spot in this house and a bigger one in my heart.

It’s chaos. I’m choosing it. Every day.

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About the Author
I’m the chief resident of The Art of Stupidity, a space dedicated to the reality that most of us are just winging it while pretending we’ve got a plan.

Currently, I’m a diabetic in remission – a title I earned through hard-won data and a refusal to settle for a life tied to injections. I intend to fuxing stay that way, even if it means navigating Christmas roasties with a bit of tactical grace.

I don’t do “lifestyle optimization.” I’m too busy wrestling with a decade’s worth of digital hoarding in Evernote, migrating to Notion because Evernotehas announced its latest price hike, and trying to find a system that actually works for a brain that’s perpetually “in the thick of it.” I write this blog because I’m tired of the glossy, filtered nonsense across all sections of life and work. Life is a series of beautiful, chaotic shit-storms, and the real art is learning how to stand in the rain without pretending you’re dry.

I’m just here to document the mess.