Before we get into it, let me set the record straight: Bradley Richmond doesn’t really live upstairs. I don’t know where he lives. I haven’t seen him since the 5th or 6th grade.
Bradley Richmond was a boy in my elementary school. I don’t remember much about him except that he had puffy brown curly hair and wore the color brown a lot, Garanimal-style. For those who don’t know, Garanimals was a children’s clothing brand in the 1970s and ’80s that sold mix-and-match pieces. From what I remember, the color options were basic and prints were limited to solids and stripes. Maybe there were polka dots for girls, but I don’t remember. As a matter of fact, I don’t even know if Bradley Richmond’s outfits were, in fact, Garanimals, but that’s what my adult mind thinks of when I picture him.
SIDE NOTE: I Googled Garanimals to see if they still exist, and they do! From my 10-second glance at their website, it looks like they’ve brightened up the color options and added in more novelty prints. See for yourself here. And in case you’re wondering, no, I’m not getting paid to promote them — but if they want to throw some money my way, I won’t say no.
Anyway, back to my story …
The other thing I associate with Bradley Richmond is Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoon. I mean no disrepect when I make this comparison. Truly. Pigpen was unkempt and a mess, but he was a sweet boy. Bradley probably was too (I really don’t remember).
Maybe it was Bradley’s big hair that makes me remember him as unkempt, or the fact that the only real memory I have of him is seeing him standing in the school playground in his brown Garanimals with a stream of sandy snot dripping down his nose after he sneezed in the sandbox. Either way, this is how my mind works. Young Bradley Richmond = Pigpen.
Now don’t come at me, saying I’m being a mean girl. I already said Bradley Richmond was a nice boy and I’m not implying that he was dirty or germy. This is just the association my mind makes.
No disrespect, Bradley, if you’re reading this. Truly. I’m sure you were just as scarred by that sandbox incident as I seem to be (given that I’m remembering it decades later). And I’m sure you’re a very well-kept, clean adult now.
All of this is my long-winded way of laying the backstory as to why, over the years, I’ve taken to calling my youngest son, O, Bradley Richmond (and sometimes Pigpen).
At first, it was because he had crazy puffy hair (O’s winter hair) and liked to dress himself in all one color — his version of Garanimals. He eventually cut his hair (before growing locs) and moved on to wearing as many colors as possible at a single time. (During that stage I called him Rainbow Bright instead of Bradley.)
But now I’m back to calling him Bradley Richmond — and Pigpen — again because every time I look in his bedroom or over at his desk (which sits in a space straddling our kitchen and family room), all I see is clutter and mess.
I know it could be worse. It’s not a literal cloud of dust like the one that followed Pigpen, or sandy snot as poor Bradley Richmond experienced. But for a person like me who thrives on order, it feels the same … Unkempt and chaotic.
Here’s the rub: O wasn’t always a messy kid. He was actually pretty neat when he was younger and diligent about putting stuff back where he found it. But now, as a teenager? Not so much.
I blame my husband (lovingly, of course). Like him, O doesn’t throw anything away. (For the record, neither does my older son). But where S has a pile of old receipts, losing scratch-offs, and conference name tags he’ll never look at again, O has an entire dresser full of scraps of paper, old drawings, half-used notebooks, class syllabi from middle school, ticket stubs, cheap carnival prizes, and other useless shit. Excuse me, “treasured memories.”
The difference is, O’s reason for not throwing stuff out (or putting anything away) is based more in laziness than nostalgia.
I’m willing to let it go (temporarily) if it’s in a drawer. Out of sight, out of (my) mind. But the clothes on the floor (because, of course, the hamper is filled with folded, clean clothes he’s too lazy to put away), the pile of sneakers in the laundry room, and the unused books piled on and around the desk, along with deoderant, hair ties, and the collection of empty water bottles is too much for me to bear. And I absolutely draw the line at the uneaten food, crinkled candy and gum wrappers, half-filled cups, and dirty utensils that line both his desk and the end tables throughout the house. Worse is the stuff I find under the couch — don’t even get me started!
I usually close the door to his bedroom so I don’t have to deal with his mess; if he wants to live that way, have at it. But the desk and family room are open spaces that I see every day and it stresses me out.
I am self-aware enough to know that part of this is my issue. Clutter makes me anxious because, in my mind, clutter feels out of control and I don’t like to be out of control. It’s a trauma response, I know. I’ve been through enough therapy to understand that. And I’m working on it. Every day. But it still triggers me and sets me off.
That said, the other part is on him. He really has become messy and his mess is truly the result of laziness. He admits as much.
I love my kid, truly. But I just can’t anymore with the mess (or the food). It’s time for Bradley Richmond/Pigpen to move out. I only have space for my (neater) O.
Pray for me … and him.
-LJDT
