Eight to Ten Forks

The last time we cleaned out our older daughter’s closet, Meghan Markle had just married Prince Harry, Fortnite was everywhere, and I still had hope. Hope that she might one day become a neat-freak. She was old enough to take on the responsibility of cleaning her room independently, so I did the thing that parents are supposed to do and backed off so she could. Since then, the closet has become her “cram everything in it that I don’t know what to do with when I clean the rest of my room” storage space. As a result, she hasn’t been able to close the door in well over eight months. 

The closet situation, along with several other domestic crimes like leaving wet towels on the floor and somehow losing eight to ten forks under her bed, is the source of my gray hair and a troubling number of daily expletives leaving my mouth.

My now-legally-an-adult child leaves for college in just over a week, so this morning, I decided it was time to excavate her closet. I went into this project with the mindset of someone preparing for battle. I had laundry baskets, trash bags, boxes, totes, cleaning supplies, and, for reasons I still cannot adequately explain, a 9-iron. Arms overflowing, I stormed into her room like I was invading another country.

“MOM! I’m sleeping! WHAT are you doing?!”

“Actually, it’s noon so we’re done sleeping. Now, here, take this.” I handed her a laundry basket. “You’re on dirty clothes. I’ll start with shoes.”

“ARGH. You’re doing the most right now.”

“I know! And you’re doing the least! UP! This closet isn’t going to clean itself!”

Anyone who has ever woken someone from a dead sleep to try to make them do a household task can predict how well my approach landed. 

But somewhere between the twenty-seven pairs of shoes she’d outgrown and the stack of sketchbooks filled with drawings by a much younger version of herself, she got with the program. 

The whole thing stopped feeling like a battleground and more like an archaeological dig of her childhood. 

There were the bead sets she had used years ago to make bracelets, thirteen Squishmallows of different shapes and sizes, photographs of her with her friends at various ages, a million broken crayons, homecoming dresses, and well, if I’m being honest, more goddamn forks.

I had dreaded this task for a very long time. The closer we got to the day she would pack up her things and move to college, the harder it was to think about all of the memories I would find buried in that mess of a closet. But when I couldn’t put it off anymore, it really wasn’t so bad. The closet was clean and organized in record time. There were no tears (at least not until now as I write this) and no threats of world domination. There were smiles, though, laughter, and several rounds of “Remember this…?” 

There was a not-so-little girl and her mom, wading through a mess made by eighteen years of living and learning, worrying and yelling, crying and maybe a little more yelling. But mostly, eighteen years of love.

Fact Is Stranger Than Fiction (Unless I’m Writing Said Fiction, and Then It’s Pretty Freaking Weird)

That is to say, I’ve spent a lot of my adult life sort of secretly wishing I could write fiction, but based on exactly zero attempts to do so, fully assumed that I could not. I’ve loved stories since I was little and have written plenty about things that have happened in my own life, but I’ve never actually tried to make up a new one. As my reading tastes have expanded over time, I became increasingly overwhelmed by the idea of creating characters out of thin air, building an entire plot, and somehow keeping track of all the reveals, tiny details, and occasionally an entire magic system. Fiction writers have occupied the very top tier of my “How on earth do people do this?” list for years.

Last week, I was listening to a podcast interview with an author I like. He said something that made my mind wander, and suddenly I had my first ever actual idea for a fiction story! I sat down at my laptop that night and just played around with it. Then I came back to it the next day, and the next. Not the day after that though. That day was a total shitshow. But now it’s today and I’m back at it again.

The thought that initially launched this frenzy of keyboard surfing has evolved so completely that the original idea is basically untouched, but maybe that’s exactly how fiction writing works. I can’t be sure because this is actually my first rodeo. For the last several days, I’ve played around with creating a fictional world and characters, and it has been strange and magical and unexpected and the most fun I can remember having that didn’t involve a plane ticket or snacks. One minute I’m drawing a map of a town I just made up like a cartographer with extremely limited talent and the next I’m writing things like “the forest knows” on index cards, as if future Nikki will have any idea what that was about.

While this absurd little writing exercise may never amount to more than a pile of mysterious notes, it feels like one of the most worthwhile ways to spend time that I can imagine. And it doesn’t even cost money! I could kick my past self in the shins for not trying sooner. Maybe I avoided fiction because I wasn’t ready for it yet. Maybe I just needed to hear that interview on that particular day. Or maybe, more likely, I was afraid I wouldn’t be any good at it, and it felt safer not to try than to try and fail. Whatever it was, I’m having fun, and I don’t even care about the outcome. Maybe I finish a story, maybe one day I write a whole book. Maybe I don’t. I’m just excited to keep playing with this little spark of an idea. And I’m excited to see if any more sparks come after that.

My Youngest Child Is a Menace

I have three children, two who are growing rapidly and becoming more independent every day, and one that cries if you leave the room without her and licks the carpet when she’s bored. The carpet licker has four legs and a tail and is obviously a dog, not an actual child. But here’s the thing: she’s more work than the two kids have ever been combined. Allow me to illustrate my point.

This morning started out as a nice little Saturday. I was enjoying a double espresso and revising an essay I’d written a few years ago. There was soft music playing in the background, the cat was sitting next to me, purring sweetly, and my husband was lying on the couch on the other side of the room reading a book and petting the dog who was next to him. I had just reached a profound moment in my writing process where I was trying to decide if a joke I’d added took away from the emotional arc of the essay, when Phoebe, my dog-child, saw something out the window. She jumped up to begin her usual bark-jump-bark sequence that occurs whenever a cat or a squirrel wanders by or a neighbor has the nerve to be in their own driveway. This particular jump-bark sequence quickly got out of control when she hit the lamp with her tail and smacked the exposed light bulb against the window, spraying shards of glass all over the room and my husband. This bulb was larger than most and I’m not exaggerating when I say pieces of glass were scattered twenty feet in every direction. No one was wearing shoes, including the dog, and the living room went from a place of peaceful creativity to a glittering danger zone very quickly. 

I had no idea how to begin cleaning up the glass given that the bulk of it was on my husband’s person. Wiping it off would result in cutting him and picking each tiny piece off would take hours. So, naturally, I got the vacuum and proceeded to suck it off of him. That sounds way kinkier than it was, I assure you. Once he was clear of shards, I sent him to the shower and then went about vacuuming every surface in the living room until it was safe to walk and sit again. 

That clean-up process complete, I let the dog outside to go potty. After about six minutes, I let her back in, only to discover that she was covered in what smelled like raccoon scat or maybe just stagnant creek water and mud. Whatever it was, it required an immediate bath which was an all-hands-on-deck job that no one enjoyed, especially Phoebe, who has no idea her actions have consequences. 

My kids are growing up and that’s okay because we’re still caring for someone who needs constant supervision, protection from herself, and frequent reminders to not eat weird things.

Several hours after our quiet little Saturday began, the dog is clean, back to licking the carpet. My husband and the living room are mostly glass free, and good news! The joke didn’t hurt the essay one bit.

Adulthood: More Than Just a Mindset

I used to think adulthood meant paying bills, having minimal debt, knowing what to do in an emergency, having a 401K, sacrificing what you want for what you need. In essence, it seems I thought that adulthood was a mindset. Or an achievement – “Congratulations! You’re an adult, here’s a copy of your mortgage documents and a book of stamps, you’ll still need those.” I believed that I would eventually become “wise” and as such, would be a full adult.

But what I’m realizing lately is that adulthood is actually just a series of tasks, repeated over and over again until you want to puke. For example, a significant portion of adult life revolves around meal planning and prep. “What should we have for dinner tonight?” Or “Crap, I forgot to pick up garlic bread on my way home.” These are things that only true adults say. Or remembering to get cash from the ATM on paydays. Ordering the dog’s flea and tick medication. Replacing the smoke detector battery twice a year. Task, task, task, bedtime, brush your teeth, don’t forget to floss, more tasks. 

Our daughter turned 18 a few months ago, and while she may legally be an adult, she’s not yet adulting in the true sense. She has zero to do lists and exactly none reminders set in her phone calendar. As far as I know, she doesn’t even know that pets need monthly medication to prevent parasites. She claims to be grown, frequently. Especially when we as parents try to set a limit of some kind. I recently told her I’ll know she’s an adult when she remembers to put the toothpaste lid back on the tube, every time she brushes her teeth. She fumed, “I guess I’m not grown then!” and stomped off to her room where she for sure wasn’t thinking about how much toilet paper we have left or if the dish soap will need to be replaced soon. 

We spend years preparing our kids for adulthood by teaching values and character but maybe not enough time teaching them how to manage the relentless administrative tasks of being alive. Sure, using manners, taking turns, managing big feelings – these are all important things for them to learn. But maybe adulthood isn’t just about gaining wisdom or maturity or independence. Maybe it’s also about becoming the person responsible for remembering all the things. The birthdays. The grocery list. The prescriptions. The oil changes. The bills. The dentist appointments scheduled six months from now. Since I can’t recall exactly when I became that person, I have to assume that these things are learned out of necessity when no one else is there to do it for you. I certainly hope so; this new “adult” of ours will be on her own in just over a month and I’m packing up all her tasks and sending them to college with her. If she forgets to get her oil changed for a year, I’ll try not to panic, and remind myself that this is probably exactly how becoming an adult works.

Happiness Hacks

Tips from a 43-year-old who mostly has their shit together (but only on Tuesdays from 11-2)

The older I get, the less I know. But oddly, the more confident I feel telling others what to do. So, in the spirit of experienced but unwarranted bossiness, I present this listicle.

  1. Learn to drink your coffee black. I spent the first part of my adult life with debilitating coffee creamer anxiety. “Do we have creamer?” “Do I need to pick up creamer?” “Will they have coffee creamer or should I bring some?” It was like I feared plain coffee and its wicked sorcery. After a stint with intermittent fasting where black coffee was the only thing I could eat or drink besides water for several hours at a time, I discovered that it was not something to fear. Coffee by itself not only has almost zero calories per cup but it also began to taste good to me. Obviously, fasting had broken me. But several years later, I still prefer it black and it’s so liberating to be able to get a cup of coffee anywhere with no worry about what I need to dump in it to make it palatable. It’s cheaper too. Now instead of spending $12.50 at the coffee shop, I can spend $11.85.
  2. Be over the top excited (read: obsessive) about something new every 6 weeks or so. Examples: octopi, hiking, Marvel movies, finding shark teeth, gardening, snowboarding, macramé, the list goes on. It’s like being a 6-year-old, but forever. I call this Obsessive Person Lifestyle (OPL) and it’s great! It’s impossible to be bored when you hyper-focus your attention and energy for short bursts. Be aware though that OPL does have an impact on your social life. Significant others, colleagues, neighbors, and your children can only hear you talk about the mating practices of the Giant Pacific Octopus so many times before they lose both interest and their patience with you.
  3. Audiobooks make it possible to be a prolific reader if you never have time to read a book with your eyes. If you enjoyed being read to as a child, this is the same. It’s soothing and makes daily chores or exercise suck significantly less. And work or parenting or whatever it is you do all day that tries to kill you is easier to get through if you know you have a good story waiting for you at the end of your shift. Lol, as if there are shifts in parenting. But I digress. Listening to books activates the same areas of your brain as reading books, so this tip is supported by science.
  4. Leisure bras. If you know, you know.
  5. Get a dog. But first, ask yourself these three questions:
    • Can I afford to spend $100 a pay period on a pet? This is not an exaggeration. Vet costs, food, medication, toys, high-end matching leash and collar, another dog – these things add up quickly. If you’re on a budget, plants are cheaper.
    • How do I feel about excrement? Honestly, pet ownership is really just a series of problems you have to solve that revolve around pee, poop, and vomit. If you don’t mind using your time and considerable talents on that sort of thing, pets will bring you joy. But if you have an active gag reflex, maybe consider a plant instead.
    • Do I think two-year-olds are awesome? Adult dogs have the approximate cognitive ability of a two year old child. And that’s where they cap out. They will never not be completely dependent on you to meet their many, many needs. If you’re comfortable with that and all the peeing and pooping and puking, get yourself a dog. If not, again, I hear that cacti are easy to care for as long as you don’t try to cuddle them.
  6. Use your PTO. Take a vacation or don’t, but take time away from your job. You might be the best accountant/teacher/sales manager/heart surgeon/mime in the city/county/state/country/world but if something happens to you or you leave your current role, you will be replaced. Given that eventuality, sacrificing your physical and emotional well-being to work related stress doesn’t make sense. Not all jobs come with paid time off and when you have children, it can be years before you get to use it for anything other than having a sick child. But if you have it, don’t hoard it like the crates of National Geographic magazines in your parent’s basement. Submit that shit and do something for you. Or help your parents clean out their basement. Pro-tip: The March 1991 Nat’l Geo issue has a great article about giant octopuses!
  7. Impulsively log out of all your social media accounts but make sure you’ve forgotten all the passwords first. This will cause a period of panic followed by a brief identity crisis but once you realize you can survive without scrolling and maybe even feel better without it, the second half of your life begins. You’ll have so much more time for your latest obsessive interest. Extreme ironing, anyone?