Chief Worry Officer

A recent NYT article gave a name to an instinct I’d honed over the years but never fully acknowledged: my tendency to take on “worry work”. This article provides a perfectly good definition of it. 

It’s called “worry work” or, colloquially, the mental load. Both terms describe a constant, thrumming, low-level anxiety over the health and well-being of your children, and women tend to do more of the worry work than men do. It’s an endless list of organizational tasks that runs through your head like ticker tape: We’re out of milk when do we need to apply for preschool is the baby outgrowing her onesies. According to the 2017 Bright Horizons Modern Family Index, working women are twice as likely to be managing the household and three times as likely to be managing their kids’ schedules as their male partners.

I find that, even as I tackle clear-cut work imperatives and deadlines, questions linger in my mind, such as: Can I squeeze in a round of laundry without having to get more detergent? My daughter’s soccer game is at the same time as her best friend’s birthday party: How can we do both? Should I sign up my daughters for overnight camp? Should I bring a fruit plate or drink boxes to the Girl Scout bridging ceremony? Did I Venmo teacher appreciation funds to our Class Parent? Can I cancel my standup to chaperone the class trip? 

My mother was similarly a planner. I recall going to school in the morning and there, on the dining room table, would be forms, schedules, calendars fully filled out. There were always snacks in the house for when friends came over. No birthday, anniversary or holiday was ever forgotten. Cards were always hand-written, gifts always wrapped, invitations always sent, address books always updated. To this day, when a cousin or family member is celebrating an event, I text my mom to confirm an address for sending a card or gift. 

My mother was a homemaker, and I presumed at the time that her attention to these sorts of things were part of her unspoken job responsibilities. And yet, as I embarked on the work world as a young adult, and even was the sole breadwinner for several years while my husband stayed home to be with our kids, I still naturally managed such things as setting up playdates and doctor appointments, school and camp applications, sports activities and vacation planning. My husband did more than his share of the housework and while he was home with our girls took them to the park and on outings every day. He took care of paying bills and of car and home repairs. But I planned.

And, while I took on this work most willingly, I made snide comments, remarking how our kids would never have gone to school, or seen their family, or engaged with other humans if it wasn’t for me. 

The past 15 months my worry work practice has dissolved somewhat; the Pandemic made much of my planning pointless. There were no gymnastics practices. I didn’t have to get my older daughter to violin—all of her lessons were virtual. Well-care appointments were cancelled. Spring break and holiday plans were cancelled. birthday parties were cancelled. And I found the few things that I still needed to do to be strangely difficult. My younger daughter missed most of her virtual Brownie meetings and Zoom playdates: I simply forgot about them.

Before the Pandemic, when I traveled on business, I used flights to prepare for meetings and plan social activities, appointments, haircuts, and shopping lists. As we re-emerge into society I’m finding myself questioning what activities are actually worth the price of mental rent I'm paying. And I am more aware of what I hath wrought upon myself—the role of Planner. 

A sudden shift to not planning, to not worrying, is, I think, too dramatic for me.

As the world begins to open up, I feel my instincts starting to kick in again, as I start exploring Jr. high schools, guitar lessons, adjusting my kids’ Stitch Fix profiles to update their taller sizes and Pandemic-inspired preferences toward leisure wear, and assessing the ratio of chapter books to graphic novels in the house. 

And, while I think it’s unrealistic to expect my partner to suddenly care about replenishing school supplies or scheduling consultations with the orthodontist, I do think it’s plausible to break off some of the worry work in small, medium-rare pieces and offer them up as delectable opportunities: Heyyyyy, I hear this camp offers dirt-bike excursions, think it’s worth exploring? On the way back from the girls’ dentist appointments you could stop by Sports Basement… We’re going camping with the Girl Scout troop this summer; wanna teach the girls to fish?

And I will start to re-think my 25-year habit of using every discretionary crevice of time to plan.

Algorithmically not very special: The StitchFix Effect

Speaking of StitchFix…I had already near-completely stopped clothes-shopping in bricks-and-mortar establishments before the Pandemic, now I’m a bona-fide sartorial shut-in, reliant on Claire, Chloe, Jasmine, or whoever else is my stylist for the month. Few of my friends and spouses understand why I even bothered to get fixes sent to me during a Pandemic, and indeed, I have cancelled some Fixes on account of having no real use for sheath dresses, handbags, or the umpteenth pair of leggings. But in the Groundhog Day environment of the past few months, when life consisted of a string of Zoom calls, emails until 9 pm and Netflix, having something new come into my painfully familiar space, wrapped like a present and full of surprises, was as welcome as discovering a new takeout place.

The problem, however, with StitchFix, and I suppose any other AI-driven D2C company, is that now as we re-emerge into society, we can all see what demographic bucket we fall in. Apparently I am “Aging mom of school-age kids living in the Bay Area, working remotely in tech” as I discovered walking my kids to the recently-opened schoolyard in my new long-sleeve baseball jersey tee with floral print and hearing from an adjacent mom, “Love that top! I got it in my box too!” 

I suppose this was a better outcome than a few years back, when, rushing to my daughter’s winter school sing, I put on items I had received from StitchFix the day before and found myself wearing the exact same outfit as another Mom. Or once having a colleague point to my grey and black striped tunic and mutter, “I got that in my Fix, too.”

Of course, I should be used to this, having been raised in an era of purchasing clothes from big-box retailers. At age 13 it was a point of pride that I wore the same Guess Jeans and Forenza sweater as all of my homies. Yet, having items come to me based on my personal preferences, I somehow hoped I would be unique. 

I know: Unique doesn’t scale. But if you figure out how it can, call me. I’ll subscribe.

Unboxing One’s Way to Riches

I’m still trying to figure out how my eight-year-old can pay us back for her Roblox in-app charging transgressions. Apparently, there is a way.

Ryan Kaji, a nine-year-old YouTuber and unboxer, snagged top YT earner status for the third year in a row, making $29.5M in 2020. For those who don’t have kids, or don’t have kids with consumer sensitivity who gravitate toward the chemical smell of trendy, plastic, cash-burning collectibles: Unboxing is a now mainstream activity involving unwrapping new toys in front of an audience.

It’s a modern-day cultural art not unlike Japanese tea serving: It involves elaborate ceremony and hand gesturing, and, in the case of the former, cutting through thick plastic packaging without slicing your hands open. Many collectibles, such as L.O.L Dolls, were designed with the unboxing process in mind.

Fortunately, my kid has honed the perfect timing and pitch of her unboxings. Now to get the lighting right…

Life Hacks Gone Horribly Awry

We debate endlessly about when social platform intervention is absolutely necessary: How about inducement of mass dysentery resulting from unfortunate DIY videos? In this case, Facebook should at least setup an emergency plumbing hotline.

Have a lovely, diarrhea-free week!

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