I used to be a woman. Now I’m a Mommy Hat. My life changed the moment I got my first crusty “World’s Best Mom” ballcap, crusted with Cheerio dust, panic sweat, and three decades of generational trauma. I wear it not on my head, but as a crown of command. When the hat’s on, I gain the strength of twelve Starbucks-fueled suburban warlords. I can assemble IKEA furniture using only passive-aggressive sighs. My battle cry? “Is anyone going to help me unload the dishwasher or am I just a ghost in this house?!”
People don’t understand the power I wield. Strangers fear me in grocery aisles. Teenagers scatter when I raise an eyebrow. My children sense when the Mommy Hat activates — the thermostat mysteriously drops 5 degrees and everyone’s iPads disappear into The Drawer. The dog starts doing dishes. The hat is not fashion. The hat is law.
