The Bins…

Some of what follows didn’t actually happen. Technically, it’s fiction. Practically, it’s a faithful recreation of the spiritual atmosphere of our home, where objects multiply and I am expected to pretend this is normal.

I love my wife. I do. I would take a bullet for Christa. I would attempt to fight a bear for her. I would, without hesitation, spend an afternoon doing something genuinely unpleasant if it made her life easier. I rub her feet at night when she’s working in the recliner—even after she kicks off the shoes she’s been wearing all day, like I’m some kind of devoted husband-slash-foot-guy (I’m not a foot guy; I’m a Christa guy).

Also, we’re having another kid in February, and Christa has fully entered that motherly nesting phase—except her version of “nesting” isn’t candles and soft blankets. It’s… containers. It’s an escalating, holy mission to put the entire house into baskets before the baby arrives. Like the stork is going to show up, look around, and be like, “Wow. Incredible bin situation. Here’s your child.”

But, I need to say this out loud, just once, in a safe space, for the historical record

Christa is in a committed, lifelong relationship with bins.

Not “sometimes a basket is useful.” Not “storage helps.” No. This is a romance. A covenant. A private language. The woman sees an empty corner and thinks, We could improve this corner by putting a container in it.

And, look, I get it. I really do. The house is a living organism built entirely out of tiny objects that don’t pay rent. We have kids. Kids generate stuff the way stars generate light. You clean up and somehow the mess is back, refreshed, like it got a full night’s sleep and a haircut.

But, the bins, man.

The bins are not solving the problem. The bins are a parallel problem. The bins are their own ecosystem now. The bins have started to require their own storage solutions. I swear to God, one day I’m going to open a closet and find a bin labeled BINS—and it won’t even be labeled because Christa doesn’t label them. Her dad is the labeler, and there’s no way I’m asking for this one. Labels would suggest accountability. Labels would suggest the contents of a bin should remain stable over time, like a sane universe.

Instead we have what I can only describe as a basket-based mystery religion.

There’s a basket by the door. What’s in it? Anything. Anything at all. Keys, a mitten, a tiny plastic horse, a receipt from 2019, a rogue marker with no cap, and somehow a spoon. Why is there a spoon? Nobody knows. The basket will not explain itself.

There’s a “kid stuff” bin. Great. Love it. What’s in it? Kid stuff, obviously—but also, inexplicably, a candle. A single sock. And something I’m pretty sure is part of a charger that has been missing long enough to have its own grieving process.

There’s a bin on the stairs. A bin whose entire job appears to be “collect things that should go upstairs” which sounds efficient until you realize the bin itself… stays on the stairs. Permanently. Like it’s taken a vow. Like it’s an heirloom piece of furniture now. “Ah yes, the Stair Bin. Very modern. Very us.”

And, here’s the part that kills me: bins have vibes. Bins aren’t neutral. There are decorative woven baskets that look like they were handcrafted by a joyous woodland creature. There are fabric cubes in tasteful colors, as if the contents aren’t absolute anarchy. There are wire bins that make me feel like we’re organizing a charming little farmhouse, except the “farmhouse” is actually two kids’ hair ties and a broken crayon that has been snapped into three separate philosophical arguments.

Sometimes I’ll catch a new bin entering the house, and it’s never announced. It’s not like, “Hey, I grabbed this because it’ll help.” No. A new bin just appears. Silent. Casual. Like it has always been there. Like I’m the crazy one for noticing.

Me: “Is that… new?”
Christa: “Oh, that? Yeah, I just found it.”

Found it. Right. Like it was wandering alone in the woods, cold and frightened, and she rescued it.

And, the thing is—I do admire her for it. I do. Because the bins are an act of love. They’re her way of saying, We can make this manageable. We can make this home livable. We can make room for us.

But, my brain doesn’t experience them as love. My brain experiences them as an additional set of objects I now have to navigate, interpret, and somehow remember.

Because the bins aren’t labeled, they are not “systems.” They are vibes. They are suggestions. They are a mood board with handles.

“Where is the thing?”
“In the basket.”
“What basket?”
“The basket.”

There are forty-seven baskets, Christa.

And, yes, I know, I could label them myself. I could take initiative. I could create a rational taxonomy of household objects. I could bring order to the chaos. I could do that.

But, then I’d be admitting we live in a world where a person needs a label to find scissors in their own home, and I’m not spiritually ready for that.

So, instead, I do what I always do: I accept the bins the way you accept gravity. Not as a metaphor—just as a reality. They exist. They happen. You plan around them. You occasionally curse them. And you try not to take it personally when you open a “misc” basket and find a tiny dinosaur staring up at you like, Welcome to your life, idiot.

I love her. I do.

But, if one more woven basket shows up in this house, I’m putting myself in it and labeling it “DO NOT OPEN.”