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In this October 2020 photo, the author poses with her completed mail-in ballot.

Photo supplied, Meg Sanders

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Meg Sanders

Photo supplied

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Despite my ballot coming in the mail two weeks ago, I decided to finally vote on Monday this week. After plucking mine and my husband’s envelopes from the mail, I then carried them into the kitchen wherein I broke my usual habit of placing mail on the counter, wanting to keep my ballots free from pizza stains or milk droplets. I learn from my mistakes. Instead, I clipped them to my fridge where they’d wait until I could do more research on the various judges listed on the ballot and Lucifer “Justin Case” Everylove’s platform.

Monday rolled around and while lounging on the couch, we decided to fill out our mail-in ballots. I went to the fridge to unclip said ballots — none were found. The clip had medical bills and Dungeons & Dragons drawings affixed. You can picture the scene as I know it’s played out in many a home. Accusations were lobbed, children were questioned and the argument elevated after the quote, “Well, the kids don’t throw anything away, I stack mail on the corner of the counter, so that leaves you.” As the usual straightener of the house, if things go missing, it must be me. This is the part missing from the Little Red Hen. She got the grain, milled it, baked the bread, washed the dishes, so she must also be the one who loses important documents.

I have a shockingly high average for needing to dig through our garbage, I’d guess at least once a month, sometimes more. Keys, wallets, cash, phones and, of course, documents keep me fishing in the trash to the point where I now have a pretty solid system for sorting. It’s a warped version of “This is Your Life” as I revisit dinners I made throughout the week. This time I was insistent that I had hooked those ballots to the fridge. If they were gone, it was done through a nefarious hand. Flipping over couches, pulling off cushions, checking every folder, car, cupboard and crevice to no avail. I had but one choice — the dumpster dive.

Twenty-two years ago, I set my fate after a horrific dumpster dive searching for my great-grandmother’s amethyst earring my mother foolishly let me borrow for homecoming. Before facing the tribunal, I desperately searched every garbage bag now filled with vacuum dust and spaghetti lunch. A crowd gathered, cheering me on through their dry heaves as I surfaced with handfuls of slimy spaghetti intertwined with hairballs. Monday’s dive came with no cheers and instead of spaghetti, our trash bags were full of pumpkin guts. I don’t know which is worse, cafeteria spaghetti or congealed pumpkin goo.

Parenting is just a hands-on education where we learn empathy for our parents, equilibrium for our kids and retrospection for ourselves. This is how I came to realize my life with ADHD. Most people aren’t digging through the trash looking for important papers, they don’t leave every cupboard open or steal their child’s pop fidget toy to make it through a TV show. While working with my youngest son after his diagnosis of attention deficit hyperactivity disorder, I came to realize I myself live with ADHD. For nearly 40 years, I’ve learned coping skills and habits that keep my disorganized lifestyle afloat. Sometimes a crack appears, but still, I keep the ship above water.

Recalling my time in a classroom, particularly with math, I see patterns of ADHD. I was a completely messy child and would easily slide back to that as an adult except I’ve established daily routines and Saturday morning cleaning. I set my cellphone in completely insane places, even the bumper of my grandmother’s car. We found my phone at the intersection of Washington Boulevard and Elberta Drive. I remember losing homework and swearing I’d placed it in my backpack. Really, my brain was in a million different places, I probably put the homework down on a flat surface.

The best part of this realization isn’t just the grace I now allow myself, but the grace I show my kid who struggles with the very same tasks I did. Currently, he’s on the search for his wallet, which he could have stashed anywhere — also, his shoes. He has multiple pairs, although none can be found. He gets frustrated with himself. He can’t understand why he skips simple tasks, breaks things he loves or loses items into a phantom abyss. It’s the darn frontal cortex. Coping skills and grace are the solutions. Instead of the frustration that comes when we find the front door left open as he’s last one out, we ask for a 30-second check to make sure we’ve got everything in order. Anticipate the ADHD.

With every surface checked, every person interrogated and each verbal assault volleyed back, it was time to search the trash. As per my system, I place both the black and blue cans next to one another. I compiled the trash and sorted it piece by piece. While I had no memory of pulling the ballots from the clip, there was no other option but the trash. Sure enough, I found both our unopened ballots in the first bag. Such luck! Only the corner was soggy from family byproduct, although it was enough to seal the envelopes of the inner ballot, rendering them useless.

Through my husband’s calls of “voter suppression” I was happy to learn Weber County started early voting this week. Friday is the last day of voting in the basement of the Weber Center in downtown Ogden, between noon and 6 p.m. Both Brian and I were able to cast a vote and keep our soggy ballots as a reminder of the 2024 election; although, come Tuesday, we may not want to remember.

Meg Sanders worked in broadcast journalism for over a decade but has since turned her life around to stay closer to home in Ogden. Her three children keep her indentured as a taxi driver, stylist and sanitation worker. In her free time, she likes to read, write, lift weights and go to concerts with her husband of 18 years.