A few months ago, at a dangerously honest Sunday brunch, a wine-swirling friend of mine, declared, “With great cuteness comes no responsibility.”
I laughed, of course I did, thinking it was a throwaway one-liner.
Now when I think about it, as I stare across my chaotic living room, where everything is in shambles except the charm levels of its inhabitants, I realise that was no joke. That was prophecy. A manifesto, even.
It Is Messy. It Is Hilarious. It Is Painfully Real.
I live with three outrageously cute beings.
A teenage daughter who can out-charm a Disney princess if it helps her negotiate a curfew for late-night K-drama binges.
A husband whose smile still works like a Jedi mind trick mid-argument.
A cat who behaves like he owns the property deed and my last nerve.
All three are masters of attitude, armed with unpredictable moods and highly trained in the ancient art of strategic need emergence, which begins precisely when I sit down with a cup of tea and a book.
Collectively, I call them: My Entitled Adorables.
The house rule is simple. The cuter you are, the less is expected of you in running this establishment. It’s practically a family constitution. Don’t get me wrong, I love them. All of them. I absolutely would chose this life all over again if given a choice.
Let me elaborate. My daughter. For instance. Fourteen going on fabulous. She looks like a Disney animation character who discovered lip balm and sarcasm. Every weekend begins with her melodic voice echoing through the house, “Mom, what’s for breakfast? There’s nothing edible in the fridge.” Cue me. Businesswoman, breakfast barista, reluctant self- appointed nutritionist, whipping up smoothie bowls or avocado toast before the clocks hits 9:30am, much like a contestant on “Nailed It: Hormonal Edition.” What follows. Disappointment. Eye rolls. I could enthusiastically serve her a five-course meal on heirloom china, and she’d still respond with a deflated shrug and say ,“Hmm. It’s fine, I guess.” There are other times she would flop onto the couch, post school and announce, “Mummy, I need to vent. You have to hear this. My life is basically falling apart.” Two hours later as she finally finishes her rant and goes to her room, I’m in full work panic mode, behind on a sugar flower mock-up for a wedding cake client and pretty much scrambling to finish. Anyways , she would remerge soon from her room, zen like charm on her face, and say, “Thanks, Mummy. You’re the best. Good talk today”, flashing her cool teen angelic smile and her characteristic hair flip as she walks away. Of course, I melt like coconut oil in peak summer season. Wait for the kicker? I ask her to clean her room before she starts her homework two minutes later and suddenly she’s weak with fatigue, quoting vague internet studies about teenagers needing more sleep for brain development. Just putting it out there that this is the same kid who once negotiated her way out of her weekend laundry chores with a speech that began with the line: “As a woman of the future, I must protect my wrists” It works. Each time. She knows it. She manages to weaponize it. Effortlessly.
Then there’s my husband. The man I married 20 years ago. Charming, funny, and unreasonably photogenic especially in vacation photos. We’re talking full SRK-level charisma. He has over the years mastered passive-aggressive domestic commentary, always disguised as gentle suggestions, “I’ve forwarded some links of some linen shirts I really loved. Order them whenever you get time… preferably before summer ends… No pressure.”
Or my favourite, when his baritone voice echoes through the house on weekends. “Where is the coffee powder” Followed by dramatic silence then “Never mind. Found it.” The irony is, Its exactly where its always been. Two shelves across from the portal to “Narnia” where all objects of his desire in the kitchen seem to disappear.
Another kicker! His love language? Domestic puzzles dressed as questions. “Are we ordering takeout again?” translation: Why haven’t you cooked today, my queen? Or even better, “Are those my Under Armour tees you are wearing?” translation: I will wear your running hoodies without asking , but how dare you touch my athletic wear? Treason! “
Then let’s not forget to mention his signature move: the Surprise Project Reveal. Always the night before our daughter’s term exam: “Oh, by the way, I have urgent travel this week. I leave 5am tomorrow morning, You will manage right? I will make-up to both of you when I’m back. Spoiler alert! He never does. His smile? Cuteness immunity, maxed out.
Then there’s Cookie. Our orange alpha feline. “The CEO of Nothing”. “The Lord of All Things Inconvenient.” He contributes zero to rent, expects six meals a day, full-time emotional validation, access to every closed door, and unconditional support during his existential crises between 3:30 am and 5:30 a.m.
He will meow directly into the depths of my soul via my eardrum daily at 3:30 a.m, scratch the new couch with glee, shed his orange fur on freshly laundered clothes, and knock over only the potted plant with the loosest soil, because why not redecorate with chaos? God forbid, I scold him? He will blink slowly like a misunderstood poet, stretch and purr like he’s composing a love sonnet for me. Five minutes later, I’m stroking his head. Apparently, I’m the unpaid intern in his furry kingdom. Enabler status, confirmed.
Last but not the least, there is me. The Designated Responsible One with a to-do list longer than the list of novels she keep buying but never manages to start. Solo entrepreneur. Domestic commander. Birthday rememberer. Grocery restocker. Emotional barometer. Life-support system for this entire loveable circus.
Regardless of my obvious burden, heaven help us if I even dare mention to them that I have a cake delivery and won’t be available for an extended period of time on a particular weekend. All hell breaks loose and the house transforms into a carefully choreographed domestic disaster. The vibe shifts from “Home sweet home” to a post-apocalyptic “ramen-and-crispy-peanut rave”. The wheels comes off the family bandwagon. Father-daughter lunches at 5pm and breakfast menus for dinner. No vegetables. No rules. No apologies. Complete emotional anarchy but with snacks.
Perfection Is A Myth And Control Is A Comedy
Yes, I get overwhelmed.
I monologue into the bathroom mirror like I’m auditioning for a Netflix dark comedy: “Would it kill them to feed the cat?
Take out the trash?”
“Must I truly manage the emotional climate and the snack inventory of this household?”
I often wonder when exactly I became the “ Operations Head of Absolutely Everything” at home and just when I’m teetering on edge, ready to submit my “Good Wife/ Motherhood Resignation Letter” something unexpected happens.
CUE:
My daughter runs up to me clutching the surprise Lububu doll I sneaked into her room as a pre-exam encouragement. She squeals, “Mummyyyyyy! love you to the moon and back!”, hair flip and all.
CUT TO:
My husband enters the room and hands me a surprise cup of his signature masala tea, crushed ginger and all that too in my special cup.
DISSOLVE TO:
Cookie, our Male ginger cat, sensing my unraveling, curls up beside me, purrs, and sighs like a tiny zen monk with a one amber-eyed blink.
And just like that… I melt. Again.
Let’s face it. Cute is a powerful currency in this house.
It’s an inside job, and I’m dealing with professionals at the top of their adorability game.
They know it.
They weaponize it.
I succumb. Every. Time.
And Finally: Understanding That The Mess Is The Part Of The Story
There’s a strange, beautiful rhythm to this madness. A pandora’s box of surprise school projects. Emergency costume hunts. Cat theatrics. If it is not my teen having a meltdown over the white kurta that has to be acquired asap for her school Republic Day speech the next day, then it is our orange male indie, Cookie, chasing invisible demons at 3:30 am and the cacophony of chaos that follows.
We may never star in a minimalist lifestyle blog, but my God, the heart of this place is gold. So I’m learning, slowly, with gritted teeth and the occasional glass of low calorie white wine, to lean into this chaos. I’ve stopped waiting for calm. It won’t come. This is our circus. These are my monkeys and I wouldn’t trade them, not for diamonds, not for silence, not even for some Louis Vuitton shoes.
The payoff? You might ask? Well, in knowing that when we stop trying to control the chaos and start laughing through it, life stops feeling like a job we’re barely qualified for and starts feeling like the hilarious, messy, wildly human adventure it truly is. In the realisation that perfection is a scam, and cute creatures may be terrible managers, but they make phenomenal companions. We learn that joy lives in ridiculous places. In burnt dinners and poker-faced compliments. In fur-tufted couches and meme-loaded WhatsApps. A million tiny, ridiculous, beautiful moments that make me believe, that I am after all, “The Luckiest Girl on the Planet”. So yes, in our home, lives are imperfect and chaotic and we have made peace with the fact that with great cuteness comes zero responsibility and thank God for that because if these adorable disasters did start pulling their weight around here? I might actually finish that dream 42K run, sculpt 6-pack abs, launch 100 sugar flower designs, write that romance bestseller stuck in my head or even discover inner peace. Well, Where’s the fun in that?
So pass me the lint roller. Refill my masala chai and let the cuteness reign.
(P.S. I’ll keep the chaos, thanks)
About the Author
Ancy James is a former television producer who, after a fulfilling 17-year career, chose to step away from the relentless pursuit of output and certainty in favour of retiring from corporate life at age 37, to a slower and more intentional life.
In what she calls her act of quiet rebellion, her toddler’s health scare ensured she followed through on this decision and she traded deadlines and huge pay packets for meaningful quiet personal life. Now over 10 years later, She truly believes that our identity isn’t something we need to keep proving. It’s something we shape daily with the decisions we take for our loved ones. She now keeps herself busy as an internationally trained Cake Artist and Chef Trainer with a culinary diploma and runs a FSSAI approved business “Ancy’s Sugar Art Academy, in Bengaluru, India. She discovered marathon running in her journey to reversing her bone health diagnosis at age 42. When she is not customising cakes or running, she is busy reading books across the spectrum or spending hours pouring her heart out in these personal weekly memoirs.
She shares raw, honest reflections on grief, resilience, motherhood, midlife reinvention, and the quiet beauty found in overlooked corners of everyday life. At 48, Ancy writes not to impress, but to connect, believing that vulnerability is the birthplace of both healing and growth. In a fast and AI driven world she believes her memoirs are her attempt to stay real and relevant as a female writer who is just embarking on her journey of “Becoming”.