WELCOME TO

MIDDLEHOOD
BY JUDI KETTELER less, unproductive griping and grousing.
I’m not immune from complaining and
certainly do my share of venting, but I don’t
think anyone would call me a habitual com-
plainer. And yet I wound up marrying one.
For the longest time, my husband’s grum-
bling felt mostly like angsty humor and
charming hyperbole. Oh you and your silly
curmudgeon ways, I would think. But then
the thing happened that always changes ev-
erything in a relationship: We had kids. In
their chubby babyhoods, these sprite-like
creatures were full of wonder at things like
butterflies and staircases. But now they’re
middle-school age, which means the sprite
is gone and, from their point of view, every-
thing basically sucks.
So now my husband and my kids each
have a version of, The world is shit and woe
is me to be stuck in it. The whines, the in-
justices, and the dissatisfaction all create
a soundtrack of complaining that my three
loved ones harmonize around. I ignore it
until I can’t, at which point I start com-
piling their list of complaints in my head
like a prosecutor building her case, until I
inevitably explode and freak them out by
screaming something like, Everyone shut
up right now! It’s a family rule—my rule, in
fact—that we’re never supposed to say Shut
up! to each other.
The three of them complain. I complain

Sick of the
about their complaining. Surely, this is all
dysfunctional.

THIS PAST SUMMER WAS A GREAT EX-

Complaints
ample. It started with my husband com-
plaining that there even was a summer—as
in, a time when children weren’t in school.
“Holidays, in-service days, spring break,
and they get out in May,” he said. “They
barely even have school!” I’ve heard this
PARDON ME WHILE I COMPLAIN ABOUT MY FAMILY’S refrain since our oldest child started kin-

COMPLAINERS. BE THANKFUL YOU’RE NOT US.

dergarten, so I just I rolled my eyes and
ignored it.
In July, we took a vacation on Lake
IF YOU HAVE CHILDREN, YOU START TO KNOW WHAT KIND OF FAMILY YOU ARE BY THE TIME Michigan. This meant spending money
your kids reach a certain age. There’s the Outdoor Family, where everyone hikes with to rent a house, which was met with only
backpacks and water bottles, happily posing for pictures at waterfalls. The Animal Family, mild grumbling from my husband. Paying
where cats are fostered in the basement, dogs claim the couches, and chickens roam the a cat sitter seemed much more offensive to
backyard. The High-Achieving Family, full of corporate jobs, sports trophies, and advanced him (“The expenses just never end!”), even
placement classes. though our preteen daughter has made a
And then there’s us, the Complaining Family. Where others collect stray cats, merit business of cat sitting herself. Whaaaat-
badges, and brochures from national parks, we collect whines, grumbles, and car rides full ever. We hadn’t been anywhere since 2019,
of discontentment. I’m not talking about legitimate complaints, like justified anger at bad and I was so happy to actually be going
government policies or physical pain that leaves you breathless. I’m talking about point- somewhere that even his silly objections

2 6 C I N C I N N AT I M A G A Z I N E . C O M N O V E M B E R 2 0 2 1 ILLUSTR ATIO N BY D O L A SU N
WELCOME TO MIDDLEHOOD
didn’t register.
Then there was the drive to Michigan,
full of construction, traffic, and idiot driv-
ers, whom we heard about the whole way.
But again, this was all just white noise for
me. A jerk here who can’t merge, an asshole
there who didn’t signal, la la la.
YOU CAN’T REALLY SHAME A 13-YEAR-OLD AMERICAN OUT
OF BEING A 13-YEAR-OLD AMERICAN, ESPECIALLY WHEN
YOU’VE BUILT THEM UP TO BE EXACTLY WHO THEY ARE.
I had found a house on Airbnb between
South Haven and Saugatuck. It was slightly
in the country but close to everything, and
it looked quirky and artsy. It had one of
those cocoon-like chair swings suspended
from the ceiling that my daughter had once
desperately wanted for her bedroom and a
sleeping porch I thought my son would love.
2 8 C I N C I N N AT I M A G A Z I N E . C O M N O V E M B E R 2 0 2 1
The kids hated it from the moment we
pulled into the driveway. Their complaints
didn’t stop for the whole hour it took us to
unpack and settle in. Why was the couch
so uncomfortable? Why wasn’t there
a pool? Why did the water taste so bad?
Why did we drive six hours to come to this
dumb, stupid, weird house in the middle
of absolutely nowhere? And who came to
Michigan, anyway? Why couldn’t we go
to Florida like everyone else? Did we even
bring any decent food?
And there, reader, in the quirky dining
room, in the house that wasn’t in Florida
and didn’t have a pool but instead had well
water and was in the middle of nowhere, I
lost it. I mean, I lost it. Yelling curse words.
Pulling out all the mom guilt and charg-
ing at them. “Do you know how hard we
work to be able to afford a vacation like
this?” (It was actually pretty cheap, since
the house was in the middle of nowhere
and didn’t have a pool. But still.) “I’m so
tired of your ungratefulness! It’s rude and
disrespectful, and. . . and. . .” I looked over
at my husband, wanting to say, “and it’s
your fault because you won’t ever shut up
either!” But I refrained. “And it needs to
stop,” I said instead.
Everyone was quiet. Holy shit, Mom
lost it, they were thinking. Holy shit, I lost
it, I was thinking. We had an hour or so of
peace, until my son pointed out how bad the
WiFi was. Sigh.
THIS ALL LEAVES ME WONDERING IF THE
Complaining Family can find any other
identity. Why can’t we be the Volunteering
Family? The Thoughtful Family? I’ll even
PH OTO G R A PH BY J O N ATH A N W I LLI S
 take the Boring Family, if it makes the silly
fussing stop.
While my husband’s complaining
drives me nuts, he’s at least funny. Michi-
gan traffic and cat sitting fees notwith-
standing, he actually does make an effort
to curb his curmudgeon behavior, because
he knows whining is an undesirable qual-
ity. But most importantly, he’s not, you
know, my actual responsibility.
But my children bemoaning and la-
menting their way through life? That feels
like it is my responsibility.
To that end, I’ve tried all the things. Get-
ting mad at them has been most effective,
though only because it shocks them into
temporary silence. Guilt and manipulation
have proven least effective. You know what I
mean—things like lectures about genocide,
starving children, and earthquakes devas-
tating whole cities. My thinking is that if
they just understood how privileged we are
and how silly their complaints would sound
to someone who doesn’t have clean water
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PH OTO G R A PH BY J O N ATH A N W I LLI S
or basic safety, they’d gain perspective and
practice gratitude.
But you can’t really shame a 13-year-old
American out of being a 13-year-old Amer-
ican, especially when you’ve built them up
to be exactly who they are.
What seems to bother me about their
complaining is that it feels tied to some in-
herent lack of gratitude for all we have. Isn’t
that what this supposed season of thank-
fulness is about? And yet, more and more,
thankfulness feels like it’s just a Band-Aid
for all the problems our world has. Slap it
on and feel better. Hashtag your social post
#grateful and move on to the next thing.
After all, you can loudly proclaim your
thankfulness and still act in cruel, selfish,
and small-minded ways. American history
is a case study in insincerity.
So yeah, maybe my kids’ complaining is
a sign that they will be ungrateful turds for
all eternity. Or maybe it’s just an adolescent
stage of finding their voice that has little to
do with how they’ll show up in the world as
N O V E M B E R 2 0 2 1 C I N C I N N AT I M A G A Z I N E . C O M 2 9
adults. Either way, isn’t it just frustrating as
hell to not live up to your ideals of what you
think your family should be?
The other night at dinner I felt myself
again moving from that space of mild an-
noyance to bubbling hostility. So I took
a step back and observed us. God, we all
talked so much. Everyone had an opinion.
But also everyone was comfortable in their
skin. No one was trying to hide some shad-
ow life. No one seemed afraid of showing
who they were.
It hit me that it’s possible another mon-
iker describes us, too: The Honest Family.
What you see is what you get. And if you’re
around us for any length of time, you’re go-
ing to see unfiltered humanness.
Obviously, I want my kids to be
thoughtful, have perspective, and practice
gratitude. What a messy, messy path it’s all
going to be. But I’m glad to be on the hon-
est route, right through the whiniest muck.
Now that’s a real Thanksgiving toast. Hap-
py holidays, friends.
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