A Response to Messiness

Hydrangeas from the garden on my kitchen sill

TO BEGIN

This bothered me immensely...

The NYT article "My Home Is Messy, and I Don’t Feel Bad About It," by Therapist KC Davis left me aghast. It was the pictures that absolutely blew me away and I found the therapist's advice short sighted and defensive, but this statement left me shaking my head:

"Messiness ought to be celebrated."

Celebrated? I think not. 

"Instead, it’s a problem to solve, a bad habit to rectify, something to apologize for profusely when a visitor walks in. At best, you might forgive yourself or joke about your defect — your character flaw, really, since our culture associates messiness with laziness."

Yes, it is a problem and a bad habit which needs to be addressed. From the pictures in this NYT article, children obviously lived there. When one has little ones they are shaping into responsible adults it is key to develop good habits from a young age.

The article continued into a discussion about messiness and its links with ADHD. At this point I became highly frustrated and nearly screamed "Pop Psychology" to no one in particular. I considered writing her a missive about using a single trait to broadly analyse the masses via web and media. I refrained and focused on washing the dishes left stacked next to the sink. I probably scrubbed harder than needed.

When I posted on another site about this, some people took offense and became defensive about their messiness. As I read the responses I noted that the majority seemed to acknowledge the lived-in look of their home and the messiness of a workzone. But no one owned up to the level of messiness on display in the NYT article. The guest author's family room, the kitchen, the bathroom, dining area, play area, bedroom were all on display littered with toys, clothes, art supplies, cleaning gear, food, dishes, so much more. The picture depicted a truly messy home.

But lived-in is different from messy. Dirty is different from messy. Messy is best thought of as displaced and out of order in excess and for extended periods. 

Ask yourself:

How many times is the table left uncleared or is it always a revolving cycle of clutter? Has it become a drop zone?

Is the kitchen sink a revolving pile of dishes never quite put away, consigned to a dish rack, washed only when the last of its kind has been dirtied and needed again?

Do you navigate along a path through a room because the floor is littered with things? Do you have to step over items? Are rooms avoided altogether? Are there doors never opened?

Do your clothes have a home? Are the clothes in the closet merely there, hanging in memory of a time once worn? Are the clothes slung over a chair, stacked or flung into a pile, or left in a laundry basket? Are these the only clothes you draw upon when selecting what to wear? Is it because you think it's a bother to hang them up? Worse, is there nowhere to put them?

Do your kid's cuddly bears and other toys have a home? Where do they live? That was the phrase I used with my tiny tots when it was time to clear the toys away and go to bed? Do your children get upset because something has been lost in the clutter?

How pervasive is the messiness? Is it confined to a work space? Is it hidden away in your personal space? Has it taken over your home? 

For the author/therapist the messiness had reached every corner of her home.

I SPEAK FROM EXPERIENCE

These are very specific questions and ones based in my own history. I grew up quickly. My parents divorced when I was seven and my mother collapsed into a state of depression from which she never recovered. I joke that I became an adult at age seven but the truth is adulthood is an ongoing process. 

Disappearing under her bedcovers after coming home from work my mother left me and my sister, three years younger, to fend for ourselves all too often. My mother remarried when I was ten and my stepfather, a workaholic logging 60-80 hours weekly in salaried lower level management, tried to help my sister and me survive. It was he who taught us the proper use of the washing machine. His uniforms needed to be washed and he was too tired. A shrunken yellow wool sweater led to my discovery that there are clothing labels which should be read. But even my stepfather had little time for household basics. Our instruction was mostly self taught through trial and error.

How my sister and I managed to become decent, dare I say good cooks, owes solely to cookbooks and cooking shows. Our grandmother ruled her kitchen and my mother had sprung forth untaught and nearly starved later in adulthood. She claimed my father had taught her to boil water. That's not to say she didn't learn a few recipes along the way. But I can't name a single dish other than pepper steak, which really didn't meet up to its name. I do recall my stepfather's meals cooked with zest on the rare occasion he had a moment free. Too many times he had to bring fast food home for dinner. I learned to grocery shop when I had a high school job as a cashier. But it was when my Dad's wife took me grocery shopping for my first apartment that I learned the basics of a well stocked pantry.

Growing up in Mother's home there were dishes stacked in the sink and on the counters. Pots and pans overflowed in cabinets and onto kitchen racks because to warm up something canned a clean dish was needed. But you couldn't clean a pot when the sink was overflowing so we owned more pots and pans than we really needed. Once a week the dishes were done just enough to get us into the next week. And the cycle continued. You wouldn't have called the house dirty but messy was definitely the first thing to come to mind. If there was a smell, that got someone's attention and washing was done and garbage taken out. At that point, it was just a messy life.

But with messiness comes a loss of good habits. And eventually my mother's messiness spiraled into full blown hoarding after her nest was empty. Her depression worsened into a bipolar disorder with numerous other diagnoses and excuses. In late life she would add animal hoarding to the confusion: indoor animals so she didn't have to venture outside. The litter boxes rarely changed, bad odors no longer bothered her. She no longer cared. I no longer visited. 

My sister and I escaped but not unscathed. An unsettled childhood turned into teenage summers away at every chance and an early escape for me. My sister remained at home until she achieved her Mrs. at a small religious college, an hour away. Her childhood bedroom became an oasis for her. Neat and clean, everything ordered and stored away. A hope chest filled for a life that would allow her eventual escape from an increasingly cluttered, chaotic, and messy house.

After my sister married she tried to remain the dutiful daughter. She volunteered her husband to help with our mother's house. Mother's bedroom was so filthy that our childhood rooms were combined into a new master bedroom. Truckloads of items were taken to the dump. Carpets removed, flooring was laid. An arch separated the sleeping alcove from the sitting area. Two large organized closets for Mother and her husband. Fresh paint, new linens. It was lovely. Within a week, the messiness, an ingrained habit, was back. Within three months, the hoard returned.

My mother had never learned good habits. Her childhood was spent studying, drawing, or learning concert piano. She had no chores and was taught little in the way of homekeeping. She was indulged by my grandmother who told me when my daughter came along, "Babies are for spoiling." She had spoiled my mother up to the time she left home unprepared for the world. 

Yet having been brought up by this unfit woman, my sister and I found a way to break the cycle. We created our own homes. Seven years after my sister married, I also married and immediately had two children before my clock stopped ticking. My sister had one son after my daughter was born. My son came soon after. 

Individually our chores became habit. My sister and I embraced our lives of orderliness and tidiness. We even adopted a few irksome behaviors which drive our families nuts. Mine centers on not leaving any messiness behind when I travel, even if only for a daytrip. It's simple; I want to come home to a clean house. And forbid that I would die and leave a messy home. But never has anyone ever read an obituary that began: She leaves behind a husband, two children, and an immaculate house. 

With children and husbands, my sister and I experienced times when our houses had that lived-in look and there were areas which were a work in progress as sewing or art lay unfinished, or a room was under construction. Nights came when all the dishes weren't finished or the counters weren't cleared and wiped. With families to raise, some chores took on a weekly cycle instead of daily. Dirty laundry was sometimes left an extra day or two. Things got messy at times. But at no time would either or us embrace being messy as a lifestyle. At no time would we excuse messiness as an ongoing state of being. It was rare that more than one space in our homes was unkempt. And at no time would we have let our homes be photographed in such an untidy state. Guests were treated to a welcoming home, not an exhibition in messiness. We were house proud. I say were; my sister died of Covid in 2022. But one thing's for certain, her house would have done her proud to the end.

CHILDREN LEARN FROM US

When my son, Peter, was seven the school called us in. He needed counseling for his behavior. Tests were conducted. My son was scheduled to meet with the school counselor at least once a week. Eventually a regional behavioral therapist was called in to consult. He and my son became good friends over chess and long talks. In the end, I was asked to help develop a plan to modify his behavior at school which would require at-home changes as well. Had I failed my son?

My son is a genius and was brilliant from the beginning. He spoke and walked before age one. His love of learning was apparent by age two with his recitation of numerous dinosaur names. How many two year olds correctly pronounce Pachycephalosaurus? He was reading at age three. While reading Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes collection one day he asked a teacher, "What does 'ejaculated' mean?" In a fit of emotion Dr. Watson spewed forth his verbal reaction and it was succinctly written "ejaculated." The teacher dragged him by the ear to his third grade home room teacher for discipline. Knowing Peter's advanced reading skills, she looked the text over and explained that the other teacher should consider the context. His teacher giggled when she later told me the story.

Peter, AKA Calvin of Calvin and Hobbes fame

Yet this brilliant child could not figure out how to behave socially and was fidgeting and antsy, easily bored. He was put in part-time classes with developmentally delayed children to teach him how to interact with others. Further, his inability to stay focused on just one thing was proving problematic. In the end, classes were modified to accommodate him. He was the student who finished in five minutes what others took half an hour to complete. To keep him busy and because he explained things better than the teacher, he became the maths tutor to other students. Besides, with his free time he could offer one-on-one instruction for those lagging behind. He was also given immense amounts of directed free time. He'd take online courses to get ahead and self test on the computer too. Afterwards he was rewarded with free time to read books from our home library. But this was just one step in addressing his problems.

Throughout K-12 Peter took classes years beyond his age, resulting in his older sister getting grief from her friends that he made everyone in their AP classes look dumb. There was the bell curve which began after Peter's score, less another 5-10 points. He won AP Student of the Year for so many classes year after year, he just received one certificate listing everything to save the paper. The awards ribbons were not scrimped on though because these were bought in advance. I still have a box full of the ribbons. His sister scheduled her AP classes so she was never in the same class he attended.

But at age seven, my son had problems that were spiraling into fits and sulks. The behavioral therapist and I worked on home adjustments also. I took time off work to deal with it because it had to be done and we lived a modest enough life that I could. One car, no vacations, and a one income rule: learn to live on the smallest income. Later as family medical bills grew, we would be forced to abandon this philosophy.

But at the time I was all in; I had to save my son from himself. From the time the children slept through the night as babies I had established set meal times and sleep times. I had quiet time routines to settle them into sleep. After a meal, bath time and PJs, lights were turned off, little lights came on, and bedtime reading and tuck in routines were firmly fixed. Mornings I had set aside extra time to allow for ablutions, breakfast, clothes, and bag prep. But I also allowed plenty of morning play time before walking down the long driveway to wait for the bus each morning. Afternoons were snacks, homework, and then play time. A few chores to help with dinner or other small tasks. And then the quiet time again. Even the weekends were set in stone with our schedules. 

I thought that I had done my job scheduling their days. I kept the house clean. They knew they were loved. They were clothed and fed. But for my son he needed a level of structure and discipline that his older sister didn't require. I spent time reviewing the additional homework my son was receiving from special ed classes and the counselors. I engaged him in the guided conversations meant to elicit details and evoke emotional response. Still, he needed more.

In an attempt to avoid medicating my child which we were adamantly opposed to I spoke with a nutritionist and the behavioral therapist. For the remainder of his K-12 years, my son was put on a directed diet. He repeatedly ate the same meal on a specific day at a designated time. The meals varied. There were substitutions and free meals to allow for rewards and family time. But his school lunch was the same thing: pasta, a small dessert, fruit, and water every day for years. His breakfast menu had about six options which could be switched but it was always the same according to the day. Pizza night was Fridays. Spaghetti night was Mondays. And so on. It helped. It regulated his sugar level. It managed his expectations. But it was only another facet.

One day tidying his room I got frustrated when I was looking for a missing part. I opened his toy box and suddenly it was as if a light bulb turned on in my head. When the children were small their toys overfilled the few shelves we had so we bought toy boxes. Rules were rules. Where does it live? from the time the children were tiny. If Reed and Peter live with Mama and Papa, where does Teddy live? If the car sleeps in the garage, where does the toy tractor sleep at night? Dolls and teddy bears on the bed. Big toys on the shelves. Books in the shared library between their rooms. Everything had its place and I thought a toy box was an acceptable option.

I wasn't messy and I didn't let my kids live in a messy home. But here was this toy box full of confusion and chaos. How many times had I seen Peter tip it over and spread everything out, impatiently trying to find something? How many times had I handed him a dustpan to scoop everything up and put it back into that black hole. Why hadn't I seen it before? Until I felt the frustration, I couldn't relate to his frustration. I had memories of the chaos of growing up in my mother's always messy home. I had experienced my own childhood anger and impatience but this was my son's feelings that I was experiencing for the very first time. I had seen it but until that moment I had not felt it. 

As an organized person I knew what I had to do. I drew up a plan, took some measurements, and found the check book. I went to a home improvement mega store and bought shelving and wood to make brackets. A trip to WalMart's closet section and I purchased clear, stacking, plastic shoe storage boxes. I reorganized Peter's closet and dedicated one end to shelving. I placed my first shelf, measured two shoe boxes in height plus wiggle room, then continued until that end of the closet was filled in shelves with empty boxes stacked several wide and two high. I had so much space I returned that same day to buy more of the boxes.

I set about getting his room organized. I chose a random category of toy from his toy box and started filling some of the boxes with similar items. Cars with cars. Blocks with blocks. Likes with likes. By the time my son got home that first day I'd made a good start. He was excited to join me and quickly assembled Lego toys. Then each one was dismantled and put in a separate box. The instructions and an image cut from the Lego box were put in last. The outward facing end of the box was marked with a description he'd recognize. Then the box was put on the shelf near others like it. We had a few categories left which didn't fit that size storage box. We grabbed paper bags and filled them, the bags clearly labeled. They would live there until we found the right size box and bought an extra set of shelves for the room.

It was a game changer. Next we bought boxes and zipper pouches and organizer notebooks for his backpack. We also bought him matching things for school. All blue notebooks. All the same pencil, same pens, same erasers. We even bought him a small "wallet" perfectly sized for a seven year old with zippers and extra pockets. Quarters in one spot for Ice Cream Fridays if his behavior would ever allow that school privilege again. School ID in another. Wheat pennies and Buffalo nickels in another spot; he liked having small treasures with him.

Peter changed. He got his ice cream treats again at school. He stopped kicking desks. His frustration levels receded. He embraced a new normal as the kid with OCD, ADHD, genius levels of intelligence in multiple areas of study, and always a book or two to read when bored. He was given a diagnosis of mild autism which we debate to this day choosing to embrace "neuro-atypical", on the spectrum, and jokingly, neurodivergent: to us it sounds more like a trend or a book series. 

Guile-impaired is another joking phrase we use when Peter tries to engage with others. He's a savant for facts so much so that he amuses a lot of people who initially think he's weird. He is weird, but he is mine after all. And we did raise him as an adult from the time he was three, after he'd begun precociously engaging adults in "adult conversation". 

He's lousy at job interviews because he can't play the game: guile-impaired, you see. Strangely, he is very good at customer service. I think maybe those special ed classes with disabled kids who had to learn interactive behavior and social norms paid off. There's always the rote answers he's memorized to satisfy the customer. His memory for every item in the store is definitely a bonus. His sincere desire to please others is another gift from the therapist who led the developmentally challenged classes. He really tried become a people pleaser after he stopped kicking desks.

It took a while to get the answers my son needed. I hate to think what would have happened if Peter had been raised under my mother's roof. I was told, "If his behavior isn't changed now, he'll end in in legal trouble down the road," as I sat at a table with the school counselor, Peter's teacher, and the behavioral therapist. My husband would join us that day for the first and only time. His work schedule wouldn't allow more and neither would his impatience. As the meeting wore on, I was the only one to engage with them. My husband sat with his head down, doodling on page after page of paper, covering front and back thoroughly. Sketching, writing, cartooning, it kept up until his patience finally ran out. He said he thought I had it in hand and stepped out so we could, "...wrap it up," an imperative and not a request. The looks around the table were obvious when he left the room. The behavioral therapist half-joked that now they knew who Peter inherited it from. 

My husband had a similar experience growing up and was never diagnosed. Instead he was sent to therapists who didn't have engaged or dedicated parents to help. When this failed he was sent to a extremist religious school with rigid rules and harsh punishments. His parents took him to church three time times a week and prayed over him. Nothing worked. He got into trouble numerous times and engaged in self destructive behavior as an adult. It wasn't until we married and had a family that my husband became grounded. We had our daughter tens months into the marriage and our son two years later. 

My husband was forced to grow up quickly. We both did. But as I said before, adulthood is an ongoing process. For my husband, he decided he had to commit to one thing for himself and that is his art. I decided that my home and family is my number one priority. I would develop myself and express myself through this filter. Yes, I would learn new job skills and adapt to different work environments than my previous life before marriage. But my focus, like my husband's, had to be on one thing and for me that was home life. 

My husband found a way to channel what may be ADHD and some other behavioral quirks into his art. He paints, draws, cartoons, writes poems, novels, and music. He plays guitar and sings the songs he writes. No, he won't play Stairway To Heaven or Hotel California. But you can listen to him as he grooves to Sade or a jazz favorite and occasionally a heavy metal classic. He is learning German and French. We own the largest German library in the county outside of one other German family nearby. He has a dedicated space to channel his energy in an art and music studio. And our family always scheduled for his studio time daily but he was the one who read to the children every day without fail and joined us at meals when work allowed.

As for our son, after college he became deathly ill. He is managing his Ulcerative Colitis and Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis but his healthcare costs are outrageous and lives with us. He works part time and is looking for a FT job he can handle that offers health insurance. He's lousy at interviews but great with customer service. He's a whiz at organizing inventory. He paints and builds models, reads, writes, and games online. He also participates in and runs a second D&D session twice weekly. The other players are just as weird and nerdy. They love him and he loves them. He's had the same girlfriend for seven years. They're friends from high school Academic Bowl. She stays over occasionally but prefers to lead a very separate life from him. He's still on the spectrum somewhere, has OCD, and needs a neat ordered space even though I think his room and den need a good dusting. But that's his domain and I'm not allowed in to clean or organize. But he knows where everything is and where it belongs.

SUMMATION

The NYT article "My Home Is Messy, and I Don’t Feel Bad About It," by Therapist KC Davis has left me wondering what kind of therapist is dismissive of the effects of a client's actions on others. Certainly the obligation is to the patient's well being but can endorsing bad behavior and affirming destructive patterns of behavior ever be viewed as good? 

As a therapist I feel she has a greater responsibility to herself and others. Yes, she should be held to a higher standard. She is embracing something which is negative, offering excuses, selectively choosing data, and excusing what amounts to bad habits. I strongly feel that as a parent she has a responsibilty to lead by experience. Children need order and routines. They need to be taught good habits and positive behavior. Children need to see that their actions have effects on themselves and others in their sphere. 

I am a maximalist by choice and must actively embrace organization and cleanliness to maintain my home. Perhaps if I were a minimalist I would have to clean less but my home brings me joy. I am generally neat and tidy but by no means a clean freak. I have never been diagnosed with OCD but my son argues that I'm definitely neuro-atypical. I am like a lot of others, possessing a sense of self worth and some self pride. I am most definitely house proud. Though a very organized person, I allot myself a few boxes of unsorted, to be determined items left for another time. I own thousands of books and CDs, and hundreds of collectables which definitely need to be dusted at any given moment. 

I need to cultivate better habits. I strive to be a better person for myself first but also for those I share a home with. I am not a trad wife nor am I the type of feminist who disparages single moms, SAHMs, or broad groups of people. But I am bothered by someone who tries to normalize bad behavior and excuses oneself from responsibility. And that's what I saw in this home in the NYT article where every room was chaos and destruction. It may have not been filthy. It may have not been a hoarder's home. But it was most certainly messy, a bad example, and a terrible way to live daily.