I deep-cleaned the van today.
And the experience was quite rude.
I deep-cleaned the van today.
When creative energy feels stagnant and the world feels too much, this is usually what I do. I clean hard and fast, and the result is always satisfying—proof that I exist, that I was in control and could manipulate forward change. Every now and again, we need the reminder of what we’re capable of in our small, insignificant lives.
As I scrubbed grimy, light gray-colored leather, I listened to a podcast and focused on the here and now. I didn’t allow my thoughts to wander into the abyss. I didn’t allow the world to take me. Nope! Not today, Satan! I laughed, as I put more muscle in it and escaped the oncoming stampede of self-critics.
To work, I used all sorts of brushes to get into all the tiny cracks and crevices that housed cracker crumbs and dried, rotting apple sauce—artifacts of the past few months. When Erik and I bought the van, it was COVID summer 2020. We’d exhausted ourselves, searching for transportation options that felt safe, that could take us out of the smothering city, out of new, overbearing parenthood, out of our stifling one-bedroom apartment in Sunnyside, Queens, so that we could come up for air—even if just for an afternoon.
Eventually, we found a 2014 Toyota Sienna XLE listed on Craigslist, posted by a suburban, New Jersey dad. Accompanied by a friend, Erik took the white lightning out for a test drive and decided it was our best option. He paid for it in full with cash right then and there. New York has taught us this: how to make quick decisions after putting in the time to research and gain a better understanding of the “lay of the land.” We were pleased with ourselves and happy with our newfound freedom.
With relief and excitement, we began venturing out to our favorite NYC spots: Washington Square, Central Park, WNYC Transmitter Park. We joked about how the van was our apartment on wheels—the perfect solution for when our firstborn got hangry or overstimulated by the city—or, let’s be real, when I got hangry or overstimulated by the city. I could retreat into the white cathedral and feed her with my body, whispering a prayer of thanksgiving under my tense breath, praying that I could be a good mom, that I could give her a better upbringing than my own.
It was in that van that we began to say our goodbyes to the city we called home for nearly six years—even before we knew that’s what we were really doing. For weeks, we found ourselves on an odd and strange farewell tour, wearing face masks, gorging curbside at our favorite eateries like Paulie Gee’s pizza in Greenpoint or sipping perfect cappuccinos at Caffe Reggio in Greenwich Village, watching the landmarks of our most recent lives flash by—the Chrysler, the Empire, the Flatiron, the Oculus, the Guggenheim, the Met, the MoMA—all from the vantage point of our Sienna’s windows, a favorite pastime of ours before our little life-changer burst into our world. Now, our joy was hers, too.
When our lease ran out and we packed up all our things and relocated to North Carolina, the van was our only asset. We stayed with my in-laws for a couple of months before deciding on our next move. That first week or so, Erik deep-cleaned the van in the parking lot of their loft. The previous owner had teenage boys, so the seats were dingy and the carpets smelled faintly of a gym locker room. He cleaned hard and fast, and the result was satisfying—proof that he existed, that he was in control and could manipulate forward change. Every now and again, after all, we need the reminder of what we’re capable of in our small, insignificant lives.
That inaugural deep-clean was five years ago, and, since then, so much has happened—an entire lifetime, really. First, one car seat and a million stops to nurse and change a diaper. Then, two car seats and a million stops to nurse and change two diapers. Then, two car seats both facing the same direction and the installment of a snack basket and storage tubs for Water Wow! sets, drawing tablets, and coloring books, items that provide for less stops. And now, a booster seat and one forward-facing car seat; we are approaching two booster-seat territory.
No more mama’s milk. No more diapers. No more babies.
Today, I wiped away all the dirt and grime from those times. Today, I paid my respects. And, after collecting the mountain of used cleaning wipes to discard, I felt the physical weight of time—a crushing grief—its lightness deceiving and cruel. I tossed them, thinking about how this life actually was pretty big and significant, thank ya very much! I guess I’ll do this again in five—maybe, even sooner. I’ll need the reminder.
Hey, y’all! It’s been a minute! I’m happy to be back and writing again. I can’t wait to reconnect with you all and get back to our regularly scheduled program here at Human/Mother. Thank you for your patience and your encouragement always—both publicly and privately. Y’all are the best!
I’m curious:
What has reminded you of the passage of time lately?
Have you done any deep cleans recently? How did you feel after?
What do you do to keep the self-critics at bay?
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I was so glad to see you back in my inbox this week — and WOWIE do I also love a deep clean 💗
This was so beautiful. Loved loved it. These simple time-passage-reminders are so poignant to me lately, too. It’s too obvious, but even the last day of school rocked me. We take these steps every day - looking just one foot in front - and suddenly, so it seems, the entire view has changed.