The Best Thing We Did for Our Mental Health in Our Home Recently

I wish I could say it was therapy, gentle parenting, or a beautiful new routine, but no. It was something much more absurd.

Photo by Fabian Møller on Unsplash

There are moments in marriage when you look at your husband and think, “Wow. I really chose a good man.”

Maybe he’s holding your hand through something hard.

Maybe he’s taking care of the kids so you can sit in silence and remember what it feels like to have a nervous system.

Maybe he’s making you laugh on a day when your soul feels like it got dragged behind a lawn mower.

Or maybe, if you’re lucky, he’s gluing googly eyes onto a trash can because he believes the household garbage deserves a face.

That’s love.

That’s commitment.

That’s a man with vision and possibly too much unsupervised access to adhesive.

And I’m not exaggerating when I say this one stupid decision has done more for the emotional health of our home than half the self-care advice floating around the internet like a beige little cult pamphlet.

Because the greatest improvement in our home lately has not been a routine.

It has not been a mindset shift.

It has not been a family meeting where everyone shares their feelings while I pretend I’m not dissociating into the ceiling fan.

It has been Ted.

TED

Ted is our trash can. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually.

Literally.

Ted is a trash can.

But not just any trash can. Ted is a trash-talking trash can.

We got one of those trash cans with the foot pedal where you step on it and the lid pops open. A normal person would see that and think, “Excellent. A convenient way to dispose of household waste.”

My husband saw it and thought, “This bitch needs eyeballs.”

So he glued googly eyes to the front.

Now, every time you step on the pedal, Ted’s lid flies open like a hungry unstable demon who has been waiting all day to consume your shame.

A paper towel? Ted eats it.

A snack wrapper? Ted devours it with judgment.

Leftover food your child swore they were going to eat five minutes ago?

Ted receives it like an ancient offering from a doomed village.

The man has range. He has presence.

He has the dead-eyed confidence of someone who knows every secret in this house and is legally bound by no one.

Ted Has Become a Member of the Family, Which Is Concerning but Also Beautiful

I don’t know exactly when a trash can stops being an object and becomes a household entity, but it happened fast.

One minute, he was a regular garbage can.

The next minute, we were all emotionally invested.

Now we don’t throw things away.

We feed Ted.

There’s a difference.

You can’t just toss a napkin in the trash anymore. You have to approach with respect. You step on the pedal, Ted opens his giant stupid mouth, and suddenly you’re participating in a feeding ritual for a kitchen cryptid.

And one of the funniest things we’ve learned is that whenever anyone speaks for Ted, every single person in this house has independently chosen the Cookie Monster voice.

Nobody discussed it.

Nobody held a family meeting and said, “Okay, what vocal direction are we taking for the trash can?”

We all just looked at this wide-mouthed garbage goblin and somehow came to the exact same artistic conclusion.

Ted does not speak in a refined British accent.

Ted does not sound like a wise old man.

Ted does not have the voice of a villain from a children’s movie.

No.

Ted is Cookie Monster with unpaid bills and access to raw chicken packaging.

“Me want trash.”

“Om nom nom, paper towel.”

“Bring Ted the garbage, coward.”

And honestly, that feels correct.

It feels like the only truth.

Because when a trash can has googly eyes and opens its mouth every time you step on its foot pedal, apparently the human brain immediately says, “That’s a puppet. That puppet eats things. That puppet is legally required to sound like Cookie Monster.”

Science cannot explain this.

But Ted can.

In a gravelly little monster voice.

The best part is that everybody appreciates Ted.

Everybody.

Ted has cross-generational appeal.

The kids love Ted.

My husband loves Ted.

I love Ted.

Ted is unproblematic, except for the fact that he is filled with actual garbage and probably knows too much.

He doesn’t ask for snacks.

He doesn’t need screen time.

He doesn’t leave socks in places socks have no business being.

He just stands there in the kitchen, silently judging the entire family with two plastic eyes and the energy of a divorced uncle at a barbecue.

The Internet Lied to Me About Happiness

The internet is always trying to sell happiness like it’s something you can organize your way into.

• Buy the planner.
• Drink the lemon water.
• Wake up earlier.
• Declutter your home.
• Regulate your nervous system.
• Light the candle.
• Do the breathwork.
• Be intentional.
• Be present.
• Be soft.
• Be healed.

Girl, I am trying. But the house is very fucking loud, someone is always making a noise that sounds like its from another realm, someone else is asking for a snack while actively holding a snack, and my brain is making the Windows 99 shutdown noise.

Sometimes the most spiritual thing you can do is let the trash can become a character.

Sometimes peace doesn’t come from silence.

Sometimes it comes from watching your husband throw away a paper plate and say, “Eat up, Ted, you filthy bastard.”

And then someone else, without missing a beat, answers in the Cookie Monster voice, “NOMNOMNOM.”

And suddenly everyone is laughing.

Not fake laughing.

Not polite little “that’s cute” laughing.

Real laughing.

The kind that cracks the tension in half.

The kind that makes the room feel lighter.

The kind that reminds you that your life may be chaos, but at least the trash can has lore.

photo of the real ted by. Author