I’ve been thinking a bit about what makes a person an adult. When I hit forty, I realized “Oh, Sh!t, I’m forty.” And then I thought, I guess I am now an adult, like officially an adult, no question. But really, what makes one an adult? Is it being able to consistently find two socks that match? Is it the capacity to recognize and internalize your mortality without letting it overwhelm you and reduce you to existential despair? Is it the ability to responsibly and reliably remove errant, unsightly body hair? No. It’s all about containers. Not the physical containers that our souls inhabit, but real containers that house the crap we buy.

I rarely considered the need for containers when I was a kid. Need to take a lunch? You don’t need no ziplock. Just put that sammich right in the Piggly Wiggly bag and tie that sucker up. You wanna take some Kool-Aid or Sweet Tea to school? Pour out the flat Dr. Thunder from that week-old plastic bottle and fill ‘er up! I see kids do this now, and it warms my heart. Now I don’t want to sound pretentious, but I have heard that drinks taste better from reusable containers than old Coke bottles, so I got one. Worth it. 

Many soon-to-be parents go through a “nesting” phase before the child comes home. It’s mainly out of fear. We realize “Oh My Lord, there is a tiny vulnerable person coming soon and I don’t know what the fudge I’m doing, so let me get ALL THE THINGS. Maybe this object will keep my fragile child from falling/drowning/choking/crying.” For me, this anxiety manifested in buying a lot of baskets.Just baskets. I don’t know. Was I literally trying to contain my anxiety? Sure. But. We had stuff and we needed things to put the stuff into, so, baskets were the logical answer. I could’ve gone with bags? But then you need a basket to put the bag into. I always judged my mom for all of her decorative baskets. As a newly-minted basket fan, I‘ve since put away my smirks and sniggers. But I do hold on to the notion that there should be no such thing as a “decorative” basket. Why they empty? Put somethin’ in those babies!

Another post-baby obsession has been Ziplock bags. We are the house that Ziplock built. Although I do have a nagging fear that Boychild will put a Ziplock over his face and accidentally kill himself, it doesn’t stop me from using Ziplocks for every single crayon, block, marker, or fussy bit of something. I tried to wash and reuse Ziplocks, and I do sometimes, but man, it’s a pain. Those corners just stay wet. 

My granny grew up during the Great Depression (not to be confused with the “Meh” Depression or any of the Lesser Depressions), and I’m pretty sure she never threw anything away that could be useful. When my mom cleaned out my grandmother’s house, she open up her cupboards and nearly died in an avalanche of Cool-Whip containers. I don’t think Granny ever bought a piece of Tupperware in her life. I’m also fairly certain she reused the same piece of tinfoil for 20 years. I was in my late 30’s and married before I bought a set of plastic containers. I think before that other people bought them for me? Or they came with the apartment? I’m not sure how I got along, but I did. Knowing me, I probably put a paper towel over a bowl of half-eaten food and called it a day. But now, I’m a grownup with containers. And a container for the lids of those containers. And as a grown-up, I now engage other grown-ups in conversations about containers. And I listen and take notes. But there is that rebellious part of me that just wants to tote an old bottle of R.C. Cola filled with Kool-Aid out in public, just to see if I get any looks.