The Full Days Are Nauseating, but They’re Filling, Too

I was in a holding (my breath) pattern at the grocery store checkout, buying chicken, green onions, broccoli, mushrooms, cilantro.

I had just swiped my debit card to pay for it all, and it was one of those awkward moments when the transaction is taking just a liiitttle too long to go through. And I start thinking I’m going to find out, in front of a bunch of total strangers, that I’m actually broke. And that I’ll have to return everything to the store shelves in complete humiliation. Or put in several hours on aisle nine, restocking cat litter and Tender Vittles to pay my debt to grocery store society.

All was alarmingly quiet. Until the woman helping me broke the silence.

“Any big plans today?” she asked.

She meant the question sincerely. I could tell, both by her tone and her demeanor. This was not the obligatory small talk I would have expected, nor did she seem the least bit concerned about my impending bankruptcy. She was looking right at me and making eye contact. She actually cared. So much so that I hesitated, caught a bit off guard.

I had been busy preparing excuses for why my card was about to be declined. But then the sale went through. Finally. So my only true challenge was to beam back to the present, regroup, and come up with some kind of response to a sincere question that demanded a sincere answer.

As a writer, I don’t generally have any “big plans” for my day. Even my writing itself involves no big plan. There is a plan, and I’m not saying it’s not an important plan. It’s just not big — big as in involved. In fact, it’s only a two-stepper:

1. Go to coffee shop.
2. Write.

There you have it: Pete’s Big Plan.

I had already spent the morning writing — my usual self-imposed limit, for a variety of good reasons — so I didn’t know what to say about any imminent “big plans.” So finally, in desperation, I pointed to the plastic bags the checkout person’s sidekick was packing and said:

“You know. Stir fry.”

We were going to make stir fry that night, which is code for my lovely wife Adrianne was going to make stir fry that night.

“Ah,” the woman replied, not seeming nearly so interested anymore.

Now, I’m an introvert. So usually in these situations, I will leave well enough alone. That’s plenty of idle chit-chat for one day, I’ll conclude. Maybe for the week.

But on writing days, when I’ve spent hours on end buried in my own thoughts, not talking to a soul (even though there are plenty of souls around me), I will sometimes turn into an extravert on loan. I’ll go to the gas station for a cup of crappy coffee, for example, and when the person behind the counter mumbles “how’s it going?” I’ll fill him in with way more highlights than he was looking for. Solely because I haven’t actually used my voice in several hours. I act as though I haven’t even seen a human being in several months, and that anyone in front of me who has respiration and a pulse is my long-lost brother or sister whose only life goal is to hear how I’ve spent my morning.

Unlikely.

But the phenomenon is real for me — which compelled me to fill in the dead air and, at the same time, justify my own existence with the woman working the checkout line at the South Moorhead Hornbacher’s grocery store in Moorhead, Minnesota. Said I:

“Plus, you know: running all over the place,” a hint of complaint in my voice. “Tae Kwon Do, soccer, track meet. Kid activities.”

And with that, this woman I had never met lit up and exclaimed:

“My! That’s a full day!”

She sounded like Mister Rogers’ younger sister. I half expected her to lose her checkout smock, throw on a green cardigan sweater and deck shoes, and start singing “would you be mine, could you be mine, won’t you be my neighbor?” as we awaited the breathtaking arrival of Mr. McFeely and our visit to the Land of Make-Believe.

Hell, maybe we were already there.

But moments later, as I left Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood and walked out to the parking lot, something very real occurred to me: This woman didn’t feel sorry for me. She felt happy for me — not in spite of the fact that a full day of kid activities awaited me, but because of the fact that a full day of kid activities awaited me.

I so easily, and so often, fall into the trap of thinking that our kids’ activities are nothing but a pain in the ass. In some ways I’m not so far off. The car rides alone are a literal pain in the ass, and the logistics Adrianne and I have to juggle for our four kids are often a psychological and emotional pain in the ass as well. It seems like we’re always carting someone somewhere, whether it’s during the school year or during the summer “break” months.

But the kids’ activities do make me — us — full, too, the way a tasty meal does.

It’s pretty filling to see an 8-year-old’s confidence improve through seemingly endless repetition of kicks, punches, and patterns at Tae Kwon Do.

It’s pretty filling to see another 8-year-old’s strength improve through seemingly endless repetition of cartwheels and spiders and flip-flops at gymnastics.

It’s pretty filling to see an 11-year-old’s aggressiveness improve through seemingly endless repetition of drills and scrimmages at soccer, and his musicianship improve through seemingly endless repetition of his cello parts at orchestra.

And it’s pretty filling to see a 14-year-old’s endurance improve through seemingly endless repetition of three- or four- or even five-mile runs at cross-country, and his initiative improve through seemingly endless repetition of service projects at Boy Scouts.

Sure, it all makes me — us — sick sometimes. Too much driving, too much running, far too little family-together time … at times.

But it’s nourishing, too, I’ve got to remember. It makes for full days.

And full lives.

Peter Vogt

I’m a writer. An essayist, to be more exact. I tell stories here—true stories, from my own life, in hopes they will make a positive difference in yours.

I share laughs and tears, insights and observations, frustrations and realizations, relying all the while on the storytelling wisdom of Julia Cameron, author of The Right to Write.

It is a great paradox that the more personal, focused, and specific your writing becomes, the more universally it communicates.