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My Suburban Life

 I'm amazed by the mounds of stuff that grow, and grow, and grow, in this house. I wander from room to room, in search of the car key, the TV remote, the baby bottle, the puzzle pieces, the poop bags for the dog.


If I were teaching a college course, I'd call it "The Literature of Stuff." I'd feature Ann Patchett's essays, which are often just about giving shit away. I'd call attention to Shirley Jackson, who wrote about trailing behind her son, putting his sneakers in the proper place, then his towel, his art supplies, his school books. I'd make room for Mary Laura Philpott, who sees her child's move to college as "a chance I get to reconnect with the clean surface of my dining-room table."

An occupational therapist visits and invents a dizzying list of "must-haves": a special kind of puzzle, a certain type of tape that will alter a rocking chair in a "therapeutic way" (the tape lasts for two hours, tops). There must be a foam board and Velcro, and all photos must be developed, and then those developed photos require lamination. The nanny requires a certain kind of stroller--right before she announces she is quitting. (And the stroller remains in its box, in the garage, gathering cobwebs.)

When you acquire orthotics, you must also acquire new footwear, because the twelve available pairs of shoes your child owns just can't quite make the cut.

The Hugga chair, the "bubble-wrap game," the egg-shaped crayons: All these arrive, and they make it out of their packaging, and then they retreat to the shadows, like little Corduroy in the picture book.

Sometimes, a neighbor visits and presents a gift, and the gift remains in its box, and when the neighbor returns for a second visit I search and search and locate the box, and then hide it again (so no one knows the gift never actually saw the light of day).

Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned....
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