Last Wednesday
The door at Milo’s school has a buzzer, and there’s no manual explaining what a grown adult is supposed to say into it. I was there to pick him up for a dentist appointment, which is a completely normal thing for a parent to do, and I pressed the button, leaned toward the speaker, and said, at full speed and while pulling on a door handle that wasn’t unlocked yet:
“Hi,I’mheretopickupmilosonmiloforappointment.”
What I meant to say was, “Hi, I’m here to pick up my son, Milo, for his appointment,” and I believe all of those words were in there somewhere.
The appointment was at one o’clock, so I’d messaged the school that I’d be picking him up at 12:20. Because I like to have all my ducks in a row, I also asked Milo’s dad to let the teacher know that morning, but he remembered the appointment was at one, so he told her I’d be there at one. I showed up at 12:20, exactly when I’d said I would, and stood there while the front office called back to the classroom and I listened to his teacher say something about one o’clock and how she’d need to get him ready to go. It was a small thing, but it was the first of a lot of small things that week.
That Friday
It was one of those days at the law firm where I could barely leave my computer to go to the bathroom, one thing after another from the minute I started. Fridays are the day I try to get the most done since I don’t have Milo: real estate, this blog, art, laundry. I’d told my mom that morning that I had a lot to get done, so she knew exactly how busy I was. At three, when I finally took a break for my first smoke since the morning, she could see the fifty-yard stare on my face, and she chose that moment to ask if I could help her tear the living room apart after I got off.
“No.”
It left my body before she’d finished the sentence. Immediate. Sharp.
About one second later, the other part of me showed up to manage the damage. Being a people pleaser in recovery means I can snap at someone and start apologizing in the same breath. I told her I was sorry for being so sharp and explained that since I don’t have Milo on Fridays, I try to get as much done for work as I can. She’d already heard that from me once that morning, but it seemed like the right time to say it again, this time with an apology attached. Then I made a counteroffer: tomorrow, after my grocery shopping, I’d pick up coffee for both of us and we’d do the living room together. She said okay, but she didn’t sound okay.
By the time I got off work, I had nothing left. I couldn’t think, I didn’t want to move, and I had so much to do and so little energy to do it with. I felt the guilt creeping in because I knew, before I was ready to admit it to myself, that nothing on my to-do list was getting done that night. I took a shower, got into bed, and watched true crime documentaries while I worked on Jack’s Instagram, which wasn’t what the version of me with the ambitious goals had in mind but was at least something. It still wasn’t a good night, because the guilt and the grumpiness took up most of the bed. Having time available and having usable energy are two entirely different resources, and I had the entire evening and nothing to spend it with.
That Saturday morning
Milo comes home on Saturdays, so I try to get as much done as I can before he does. That morning I was moving through the grocery store like a contestant on Supermarket Sweep, frantically checking things off my list and trying to get through as fast as humanly possible. Then I found an inflatable Bluey Halloween decoration for half off, and I felt like I’d won something.
I went through a drive-thru on the way home to get my mom and me the coffees I’d promised, and when I started unpacking the groceries, I discovered I’d bought the world’s most expensive box. Inside it was a crumpled plastic bag that the actual inflatable had been packaged in and a power cord. I called the store to tell them what I’d found, and they informed me I’d bought the display model. They said to bring it back and they’d help me out, so I rushed over and stood in line for a couple of minutes, until the nicest Fred Meyer employee alive recognized me as the person who’d called. She told me to go grab another one and they could swap it out, and since I was next in line, I power walked across the store.
There wasn’t another one on the shelf, so I was walking back empty-handed when I spotted one last box: a different Bluey inflatable with the same sale tag. I grabbed it and returned to customer service, where I was now third in line.
I stood there for forty minutes holding the empty box, the much heavier box that was actually full (which, in hindsight, should have been my first clue about the other one), my phone, my keys, my receipt, and a bag of dog treats Jack couldn’t eat that I was also planning on returning. I kept my chin on top of the pile to hold it in place while I carefully shifted my phone, receipt, and keys into a more comfortable position, which I did at least seven times. Nobody ahead of me was returning anything. I’d assumed customer service existed for lottery tickets, bathroom codes, and returns, but someone was sending something to other countries, maybe money? The receipts coming out of their printer made a CVS receipt look like a sticky note. Meanwhile, my iced coffee was sitting on the counter where I’d left it, and the living room was waiting for me.
When it was finally my turn, I learned the other Bluey was $150, so I politely declined (which is to say, hell no), returned everything for a refund, and left. By then the line had wrapped around to the electronics department, and my arms were shaky and sore, since they’re only really there for decoration.
The rest of the day went to the living room, which my mom and I tore apart so we could get it ready for Christmas decorations. Moving the couch meant finding Jack’s stash behind it, including but not limited to: a half-eaten paper plate, a toy airplane, a rubber duck, a pineapple stuffed animal, and a Graco car seat strap I had no idea was missing (Milo’s car seat is safely and correctly installed in my car). Jack has apparently been running a heist operation behind our furniture.
Later that day, Milo and I carved his pumpkin, and while I was still feeling ambitious and energetic, I decided to save the pumpkin seeds and put them in the fridge to soak for roasting later.
The following Thursday
I got an email from TurboTax with the subject line Final Notice: your tax filing status. My stomach dropped, because feeling like I’ve forgotten to do something important is one of my least favorite sensations, and being a people pleaser in recovery means I can’t even let the IRS down.
The email encouraged me to e-file my 2025 return “before October 31, 2026, 9PM PT” and not to “lose all the progress you’ve made so far.” It did add, helpfully, that the reminder applies to all TurboTax online users, which apparently includes people who filed seven months ago, got their refund, and have already spent it on credit card debt, because starting a business is expensive, occasionally disheartening, and somehow also exhilarating at the same time.
Tonight
The pumpkin seeds have been soaking in the fridge for six days, which is a perfectly reasonable amount of time, and I forgot they existed until I sat down to write this. They’re going in the trash tonight.
After that sharp Friday “No,” my mom and I fought during the week about a lot more than furniture. We both needed space, we both felt justified, and we both handled things poorly, reacting to each other instead of listening. I don’t know that it will ever be fixed, exactly, and it’s still tender, but we’re talking to each other now, which is more than we were doing a few days ago.
Tonight I was washing dishes, and because it’s dark outside and light inside, the window in front of the sink works like a mirror, so I could see the kitchen behind me in the reflection. Something moved. It was just me and my mom in the house, and she was in her room. Then the automatic trash can lid opened by itself. I stopped what I was doing and turned around, and no one was there. The lid usually closes after about five seconds, but this time it stayed open for two minutes. Eventually I said out loud, “If someone’s in here with me, please shut the lid,” and it closed right after I said it. I ran down the hall to my mom’s room like I was seven and had just heard something under the bed.
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