It never ceases to amaze me how many communication styles exist out there. Clear, straightforward. Sideways. To the point. Rambling. And on and on.
I think of myself as a clear communicator in writing.
In speaking, I recognize I’m not always as good at asking for exactly what I want. I qualify. “If you could, I’d appreciate it if you might…” Or “It would be nice if someone did X” when I mean you. Yes, you. Get the idea?
No, actually, they often don’t. Or they deliberately choose not to, like my spouse. He thinks he’s going to change my communication style. That would be nice. Unlikely, but nice.
Why is it always the most difficult to communicate clearly with the people we love? And what happens when we get caught in the middle between two of them?
Case in point - my daughter’s boxes in my basement.
When I moved south, Anne, my daughter, was going off to college. It was tacitly understood by all three of us that we would store the contents of her room she didn’t need in her dorm (or at her dad’s house). What was less clear was for how long. Dave assumed we’d have them here until she graduated in 4 years. Anne assumed we’d keep them indefinitely. I assumed we’d have them at least until she finished grad school. Of course, none of us had voiced any of those assumptions out loud in each other’s presence.
Four years went swiftly by. A month or two before graduating with her bachelor’s degree, Anne announced that she was moving to California with her boyfriend. I understood that this meant we’d have the boxes a while longer. It was at this point that Dave started quietly fuming. Remember that formerly clean basement?
A year and a half later, she returned to the east coast to go to grad school (for 3 more years.) “Now?” Dave asked, plaintively. “No.” we both said to him. It was left to me to explain that Anne said that putting her boxes in a small apartment would mean she couldn’t fit anything else there. Eye roll from Dave.
Every time Anne moved, it seemed she moved to apartments with smaller and smaller closets, less and less storage. She became someone indicative of her generation - buying secondhand items and letting them go each move to keep costs down. Owning very little other than clothing. Good on her.
This did not take care of the boxes. Or, for that matter, for the furniture we were also keeping for her. “Not now,” she’d say to me, every year, leaving it for me to tell Dave. Again.
This went on through contract jobs and even through her first apartment in Baltimore, where she told us she was going to put down roots. Dave’s patience was at an end. I couldn’t blame him. Mine was, too.
About a year ago Anne indicated that she was starting to look for a house. Things on my end were now rapidly coming to a head. I informed her that the end of free storage was near. I knew full well that Anne did not want “a bunch of junk,” which is likely what was in those boxes she’d hastily thrown things into seventeen years before. I also knew for my own sanity that those boxes needed to leave. I felt squeezed between a rock and a hard place. Even though I had no desire to open the boxes, I realized I’d save myself a lot of grief if I went through them first.
Lucky me.
Last spring, with Anne’s permission, I began opening everything on the last, untouched shelving unit. I had to make the tough decisions. I threw a lot out. I took photos of other things to inquire first whether I should throw them out. Some boxes were simply going to Baltimore. Her yearbooks from grades K - 12? Not my problem. Papers from elementary school we were both particularly proud of back then? She can scan them and discard. And so on.
Once the house was purchased, I started sending photos of the furniture. Some was items we were not using; some was previously claimed by Anne. Approvals were obtained for additional items. I started piling boxes and furniture in the middle of the basement floor. It was quite astonishing what needed to go. I worked on this daily for over a month.
I think of myself as a clear communicator in writing.
In speaking, I recognize I’m not always as good at asking for exactly what I want. I qualify. “If you could, I’d appreciate it if you might…” Or “It would be nice if someone did X” when I mean you. Yes, you. Get the idea?
No, actually, they often don’t. Or they deliberately choose not to, like my spouse. He thinks he’s going to change my communication style. That would be nice. Unlikely, but nice.
Why is it always the most difficult to communicate clearly with the people we love? And what happens when we get caught in the middle between two of them?
Case in point - my daughter’s boxes in my basement.
When I moved south, Anne, my daughter, was going off to college. It was tacitly understood by all three of us that we would store the contents of her room she didn’t need in her dorm (or at her dad’s house). What was less clear was for how long. Dave assumed we’d have them here until she graduated in 4 years. Anne assumed we’d keep them indefinitely. I assumed we’d have them at least until she finished grad school. Of course, none of us had voiced any of those assumptions out loud in each other’s presence.
Four years went swiftly by. A month or two before graduating with her bachelor’s degree, Anne announced that she was moving to California with her boyfriend. I understood that this meant we’d have the boxes a while longer. It was at this point that Dave started quietly fuming. Remember that formerly clean basement?
A year and a half later, she returned to the east coast to go to grad school (for 3 more years.) “Now?” Dave asked, plaintively. “No.” we both said to him. It was left to me to explain that Anne said that putting her boxes in a small apartment would mean she couldn’t fit anything else there. Eye roll from Dave.
Every time Anne moved, it seemed she moved to apartments with smaller and smaller closets, less and less storage. She became someone indicative of her generation - buying secondhand items and letting them go each move to keep costs down. Owning very little other than clothing. Good on her.
This did not take care of the boxes. Or, for that matter, for the furniture we were also keeping for her. “Not now,” she’d say to me, every year, leaving it for me to tell Dave. Again.
This went on through contract jobs and even through her first apartment in Baltimore, where she told us she was going to put down roots. Dave’s patience was at an end. I couldn’t blame him. Mine was, too.
About a year ago Anne indicated that she was starting to look for a house. Things on my end were now rapidly coming to a head. I informed her that the end of free storage was near. I knew full well that Anne did not want “a bunch of junk,” which is likely what was in those boxes she’d hastily thrown things into seventeen years before. I also knew for my own sanity that those boxes needed to leave. I felt squeezed between a rock and a hard place. Even though I had no desire to open the boxes, I realized I’d save myself a lot of grief if I went through them first.
Lucky me.
Last spring, with Anne’s permission, I began opening everything on the last, untouched shelving unit. I had to make the tough decisions. I threw a lot out. I took photos of other things to inquire first whether I should throw them out. Some boxes were simply going to Baltimore. Her yearbooks from grades K - 12? Not my problem. Papers from elementary school we were both particularly proud of back then? She can scan them and discard. And so on.
Once the house was purchased, I started sending photos of the furniture. Some was items we were not using; some was previously claimed by Anne. Approvals were obtained for additional items. I started piling boxes and furniture in the middle of the basement floor. It was quite astonishing what needed to go. I worked on this daily for over a month.
The amassing pile in my dining room, ready to be loaded onto the van.
I came to realize that no matter what went to Baltimore, these three things were a given:
I called the truck rental company and secured a transit van.
- Dave would do the happy dance and pack the van for me.
- Anne would be unhappy about the amount of boxes coming to her, even at less than half of what there were originally.
- I’d be relieved that this chapter of being squeezed between the two of them was over.
I called the truck rental company and secured a transit van.
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