Keekee says

It happened yesterday. One of those classic fable moments. But without the talking animals and plants— Kody walked in my room first. Kash wasn’t too far behind him; Sprunki in hand and Baby Shark blanket in tow.

“Mommy, what’s for breakfazt?” With his cute little beaming smile and lisp.

Decision fatigue is already setting in. Classic Keekee, I didn’t prepare for this moment. 🙄

My daily reminder now gets swept away to cobweb corners of my brain. I quickly smile as if everything is fine.

Business as usual.

“Oh boy! Well, what would my Kody and Kash like?”

That was just passable. The teens would have smelled the phony a mile away.

My heart began to race; I prayed the next question didn’t follow.

He’s going to ask, he will ask.

You know you want him to.

“What day is it? Is it Monday?” He was on the bed now. Smirking wildly as he began jumping up and down.

He asked. Even better, he knew.

I quickly checked my bank account— of course not. The bitter cold, my inability to brave it this weekend, has left her dry.

“Yes, my love, but no donuts today. We have to eat at home.” Mom guilt level 50. 😭

“Why not?”

He stopped jumping. I could see the heartbreak in his eyes. My insides twisted sharply.

There’s nothing I can do.

“There’s nothing I can do; mommy didn’t do any extra work.”

“Mommy, you awze workin.” His lisp made me chuckle. 🤭

“You’re right, but sometimes you don’t get paid money for work.” He suddenly left the room. My moment was over—attention fini.

He arrived back moments later with my purse. “Use one of dez cards.”

I looked at him, holding my purse as he’d just solved world hunger.

“Use one of dez cards.”

If financial literacy started and ended with toddlers, we’d all be billionaires.

I smiled, because what else can you do when your baby thinks the problem is that you simply forgot your magic plastic money wand?

“Those cards need money on them first, baby.”

He blinked. Processing. The way kids do when the world doesn’t follow cartoon logic.

“Oh.”

That was it. No spiral. No shame. No stress headache forming behind his eyes, the way it does behind mine. He just accepted it and went back to jumping on my bed like the future didn’t come with bills attached.

Must be nice.

⸻

And that’s when it hit me.

My kids think I’m rich.

Not rich-rich. Not a yacht, private school, “let’s summer in Italy” rich.

But rich enough that:

  •          Donuts on Mondays feel like a given

  •          The lights always come on

  •          The fridge, even on struggle weeks, still has something

  •          And Mommy can fix most problems with a hug and a snack

To them, I am a provider of miracles.

To me, I am a professional juggler of due dates.

I could explain budgets. I could talk about “extra work” and “waiting until payday” and “not today, maybe next week.”

But they are little. And little kids don’t measure wealth in numbers.

They measure it in:

  •          Traditions

  •          Full cereal bowls

  •          Warm blankets from the dryer

  •          And whether Mommy seems worried

So sometimes I carry the worry quietly… so they can keep thinking we’re rich.

We didn’t get donuts that Monday.

We had toast. Slightly burnt, because I was busy pretending everything was fine while mentally rearranging the week’s meals like a Tetris champion of survival.

They didn’t care.

Kody dipped his toast in syrup like it was gourmet. Kash wore his Baby Shark blanket like royalty.

And just like that, the crisis that had my chest tight at 8:12 a.m. didn’t even make their top ten memories of the day.

To them, we still live in abundance.

And maybe… in the ways that matter most… we do.

They see wealth in ways my bank account never could.

If you’ve ever stretched a dollar and still made magic, you’re my kind of rich — tell me your “we made it work” moment in the comments.