How To Wake Up Your Lazy Ass Adult Child

I'm all about being "woke." And soon my daughter will be, too. As in WOKE UP.

My daughter in her usual mood: pissed off. Why? Because she is expected to work and that’s super inconvenient.

by Stephanie Vandervelvet

Sometimes they simply won’t leave the nest. You love them, but… do you? They were so cute when they were small. Irresistible, in fact. But somewhere around age 19, 20 or thereabouts they stopped being cute. Now they’re good looking, yes, but the “cute” part is a distant memory. And the filth that comes out of their mouths at this age… wherever did they learn that language? Oh yeah, that’s on me.

On a daily basis I think “Wow, what have I done to deserve this?!” “You have a free home, free food, a Subaru Forester and an iPhone 14 ProMax.” Plus I clean, I cook, I do laundry, I give her spending money. What friggin’ gives here? Come on! Toss the dog a bone with the occasional hug or a muffled “thank you, mom.” PLEASE.

I’ll be frank… I don’t think I’m hardwired to love this current phase of my daughter’s life, which for lack of a better description I’m going to call the Reckless Phase. My daughter drives recklessly, she’s reckless with her time and my money, reckless about what she eats (or doesn’t eat) and she is most certainly reckless with her kisses (as they say). I have no control over any of this. None at all. She’s “an adult,” as she reminds me constantly. This was my favorite video when my son went through this phase: “I Threw It On The Ground.” Love the classic line from this song… “I don’t need a handout! I’m an adult!”

Definition of “an adult” from the Urban Dictionary

I’m no scientist, but I’m guessing the problem may be that it’s hard to experience “love” when your cortisol levels are 10x higher than the endorphins you used to feel when you cuddled the smaller version of your child. There is absolutely no cuddling going on over here anymore, at least not for me. I’m all cuddled out. And my daughter is getting all her “cuddling” from that good-looking soccer player from the San Jose Earthquakes who shows up around 11:00 p.m. every few days. Someone’s endorphins, oxytocin and dopamine are getting a workout, if you catch my drift, and it ain’t mine. I’m just running into soccer boy’s nude ass in my bathroom in the middle of the night. And seeing that did not trigger endorphins. What got triggered was adrenaline and cortisol, after which I laid in bed stewing for the rest of the night, as horrible country-western music drifted through the paper thin walls of my wee bungalow.

The digital blood pressure cuff was about to explode, so they had to resort to taking my blood pressure manually.

Then there’s the issue of my blood pressure, which is known to hover around 130/80 when my daughter is around. My doctor suggested we needed to figure out what exactly might be causing its creeping toward a "hypertensive crisis.” Not sure what sets you off about your living-at-home adult child, but my trigger list has grown pretty long. There is no mystery on this blood pressure issue as I eat a mostly plant-based diet and exercise regularly. But this… this sets me off:

🌺 dirty dishes and junk food wrappers everywhere

🌺 feminine hygiene products souring in the bathroom trash

🌺 PEOPLE WHO DON’T WORK

🌺 vaping gear and vodka bottles in the laundry

🌺 bathroom countertop overflowing with cosmetics

🌺 the whole house reeking of “Ariana Grande Cloud Eau de Parfum”

🌺 cowboy boots, hair accessories and curling iron (still on) littering the kitchen table

🌺 having to play tug-of-war with my dog over thong underwear found in my garden

🌺 dust-bunny covered velvet handcuffs under the living room couch

🌺 hour-long showers that obviously include more than one person

🌺 middle of the night Doordash food deliveries

🌺 PEOPLE WHO DON’T WORK

🌺 young men of unknown origins visiting my house at all hours

🌺 daughters who sleep in until 1:00 p.m. every friggin’ day

🌺 general filth and disorganization

🌺 PEOPLE WHO DON’T WORK

UGH. And then there’s that horrible country western music. Truly the final straw for me. It’s like the MAGA people are hosting a Trump fundraiser in my backyard.

On the bright side: my daughter always looks fantastic (knock-out, in fact) and her nails are flawless. Each day she wears a tasteful and stylish ensemble (if but a bit risqué) and her car is impeccably detailed, thanks to a litany of young men looking to impress her.

You can bet this nail job cost about $65 before the tip. Not covered on the EBT card.

The endless parade of young men. Pablo has been washing the Subaru for about three hours, but my daughter is still asleep.

So when and how did the Reckless Phase begin? Well, that was around the time a decision was made to not continue with college (which was not my decision, by the way). The long-discussed expectation was that in lieu of going to school, my daughter could continue to live at home if she worked full time and helped with bills. THIS was the agreement to which she cheerfully agreed. But as ye olde expression goes… “the best laid plans of adult children and mice often go wrong.”

One month of unemployment morphed into four during which there were only three interviews. And when an excellent job offer with full benefits presented itself, it was summarily dismissed because, as she put it: “I am not interested in selling vegetables.” Mind you this was for a gourmet heirloom vegetable stand in the Napa Valley. Apparently this gig was beneath the likes of my lazy, shiftless woman-child. That or there was concern that having to work with organic vegetables might wreck her gel nails.

Selling this beautiful produce was unacceptable to my daughter, even though this proprietor was happy to let her wear her midriff exposing attire and nose ring.

For my mental sanity I had to think of a way to make all of this STOP. It seemed as though no amount of yelling, laying down the gauntlet, cutting off the cash or taking away the Subaru was having any impact. Fuck me.

So I called my sister. Desperate. And I unloaded for hours… about everything going on in my house, including my constant anxiety and resultant high blood pressure and my feelings of claustrophobia from being relegated to the back two rooms of the house for two years. Her solution: kick her out. Then I called my best bud Lori. Her solution: kick her out. My daughter’s two aunties. Both messages identical and unambivalent.

But this was easier said than done. There was a lot of “stuff” and where would she go? Was that even my problem? My “mom brain” went to dark places. Would she end up a drug addict, become suicidal, have to live on a park bench or become a street walker? Would she have enough to eat? Would she be cold? Would she ever be gainfully employed? These thoughts kept me awake many a night.

IF my daughter were homeless, she would still figure out how to shave her legs, apply her self-tanning serum and do her makeup flawlessly in less than ideal conditions.

Then came THE final straw, and right before the holidays. My daughter let her amoureux du jour move into our house without asking. This was a person I hardly knew and had really only seen in passing. I didn’t even have a last name. Suddenly the two of them were inseparable, cooking meals together, running up the heating bill ($400!), taking long excursions in the Subaru ($500 in gas!), ordering take away sushi from Morimoto’s and inviting other friends over to celebrate their newfound love… partying amidst her filthy, garbage-strewn side of the house, country music blaring. And every day those two love birds slept in until halfway through the afternoon. Both were fully UNEMPLOYED. Steam was coming out of my ears.

I began traversing to even more dark places, usually around 3:00 a.m., as I knew there was no way my baby girl was leaving peacefully. And there was absolutely no way she was going to work unless she no longer had a roof over her head. She had made that really clear.

I know many of you have been at this intersection of unrelenting parental worry and desperately needing your adult child to leave (and before you lose your mind). I was there. And being the creative I am, I woke one morning knowing exactly what had to be done. The time had arrived to quit tiptoeing around my property and to take back my house, all of it. What I had to accomplish was this: make living here super unappealing. Unbearable. Embarrassing. Fortunately my daughter complained incessantly, so I knew exactly how to get under her skin.

This combo of early morning sounds and smells seemed to do the trick.

The first day of what I’ll call the “voluntary eviction,” I woke up around 5:30 a.m., got out my Bose speaker and synced it up with the “Earl Scrugg’s Radio” set on Pandora, then put “Foggy Mountain Breakdown” at max volume. Fortunately my speaker is waterproof, so I brought it right in the shower. Now there’s some banjo music for you! Gen Z’ers love banjo, right? And it was a long shower… you know the kind where you’re shaving your legs, doing a body scrub and whatnot. About 45-minutes later I was done. As I turned down the volume on the speaker, I could hear profanity laden complaints emanating from the next room. I was on the right track.

At around 7:30 a.m., my mow and blow guy, Rudy (a former boyfriend of you-know-who, by the way), came by to take care of the leaves that had piled up in the yard. I had offered to pay my daughter $75 to rake those leaves just last week, but she declined as she was “too busy.” No matter… Rudy was on it and while he was at, I thought it might be good for him to clean out the gutters next to my daughter’s bedroom window. “No problem” he said, as he rev’d up his STIHL Magnum BR 800 leaf blower. While he was busy blowing leaves, I fried up three pieces of bacon and threw some pumpkin spice mix into a pot of boiling water to fill the house with nice smells. Once the bacon was done, I threw it in the trash. I don’t eat that shit, but who doesn’t like that smell?

Me vacuuming to Dream On by Aerosmith. Had to crank it pretty loud to hear it over this old-school vacuum.

Around 9:00 a.m. I felt the urge to vacuum. So I went at it like a mad woman, pulling out every piece of furniture, doing the curtains, couches and windowsills. Took about an hour and a half. Time for lunch! Off I went to In-N-Out Burger. When I returned, two very shagged out looked people were eating bowls of Honey Nut Cheerios in the kitchen and wondering where was the pumpkin pie, might they have some. No pumpkin pie. So sorry.

The next day was Friday… garbage day. Trucks came by all day, first out front, then on the alley. That was six rounds of garbage trucks with bad hydraulic brakes. Friday is our chihuahua Sophie’s most important day of the week. I set her out on the front porch just off my daughter’s room. She went nuts all morning as each truck drove by (enjoy link to sound effects). This also seemed like a great day to organize the living room and dining room which were filled to the brim with my daughter’s art and jewelry making stuff. I decided she could keep everything in one corner of the dining room and proceeded to moving every last thing to the wobbly plastic Costco table by the windows. So nice! There were the couches and footstools… a place we used to enjoy watching movies together. Around 11:00 a.m., Mandy came over to measure all of the rooms for painting, including Ellie’s. We barged right in and got those much needed dimensions. Fortunately everyone was “decent” and acting friendly on account of the stranger in the bedroom.

Saturday I started the day with two-octave major scales on my new flute, then moved on to Scottish reels for about an hour. Mid-morning it occurred to me that it had been a really long time since I’d cleaned out the shelves with the pans, so I started in on that project with gusto. I went a tad too fast, however, and dropped a stack of baking sheets. Oops. Then remembering it was Christmas Eve, I set out to get a few gifts, namely packing boxes and lots of them. Also got some packing tape and bubble wrap. On Sunday, Christmas, this is what the love birds found next to the tree they had decorated as a couple. Attached was a cheerful card from me with a date by which they were expected to move out: January 13, my birthday. And that was that.

My daughter seemed non-plussed about it all, and I could tell I’d finally made my point. She said “Mom, I know this is going to be really hard for you, but we can’t stay here. We need our own place.” It was all I could do to keep from laughing.

On January 13, they were gone. All their crap went into a storage unit and they moved their lazy butts into a camper owned by the parents of one of their friends. It wasn’t ideal, but they were safe, they had a roof over their heads and it was FREE. And I gave them just enough money for food. Suddenly they were very motivated to work.

Everyone is now fully EMPLOYED and the Adulting Phase has begun. THANK GOD.