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“I was thinking about stories, not e-commerce, but as the business crew, we needed a storefront,”
and Shopify made that part much easier. It's simple to set up. The design tools help you build a beautiful store without being a web designer, and Shopify makes checkout easy for customers. I really like the Shopify let's me stay focused on my creative work, while giving us the tools we need to actually run the business.
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to start your free trial today. That's right, start your free trial at Shopify.com/nothingmutch. That's Shopify.com/nothingmutch. To bed time stories for everyone, in which nothing much happens, you feel good, and then you fall asleep. I'm Catherine Nikolai.
“I write and read all the stories you hear on nothing much happens.”
Audio engineering is by Bob Woodersheim. We give to a different charity each week. On this week, we are giving to the true and faithful pet rescue mission, making a difference in the lives of resilient, loving, and devoted senior dogs, and giving them the forever homes they deserve.
Learn more about them in our show notes. Or add free bonus content, or join the virtual village through our app. Go to nothingmutchappen.com. I lead a weekly live creative writing group through the app called the writers room. If you've been looking for a sign to start or return to writing, maybe this is it.
When you climb into bed, your mind, relieve of its duties for the day, can wander off and keep you up or even wake you up, it needs a bit of direction, a sort of scaffolding
“to build sleep on top of, and that's how bedtime stories work.”
I'll tell our story twice, and I'll go a little slower the second time through.
All you have to do is listen. Some folks just need one story. Others need them to play all night long. Any way that it works for you is good. Our story tonight is called Moving In, and it's a story about a long drive.
In a packed car, at the beginning of freshman year. It's also about paper cups of coffee, new towels, and beloved memories, turning leaves on the commons, and the tender adventure of growing up and letting go. I've tried enough skin care at this point to know that a lot of it makes very big promises,
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“Please support our show and tell them we send you.”
It's time. Switch off your light, set down anything you were looking at or working on. You have looked at a screen for the last time today. Snuggle down into your sheets and let every part of your body soften and relax. If you tend to clench your jaw, try resting the tip of your tongue, where your upper
teeth meet the gums on the inside.
But first take a deep breath in through your nose, let it out your mouth.
“Place one more breath in and out good moving in.”
The station wagon was packed, handed had been unpacked and repacked twice already. We've been putting things together all summer. A box of books here, a desk lamp and shower caddy there. And it hadn't seemed like much stuff when it came in a piece at a time. But as we began to wedge things into the back of the wagon, all of it seemed to have multiplied
while we weren't looking. Sheets and comforters, pillows and a new book bag, laundry baskets, full of clean, folded clothes, a bundle of hangers, shower slippers, and toiletries, and favorite snacks to see her through study sessions. We fussed over how to arrange it all, doing our best to leave no hoodie or extension
cord behind. Though she was so much less worried about it all than we were, which we supposed was exactly how it should be. She was looking ahead to a year of adventure, new friends, new experiences. We were holding on to the rhythms of the life we'd live together since we brought her home
from the hospital in her car seat.
“It made, making sure she had the shampoo she liked, feel very important to us.”
Less so, to her.
By mid-morning, only about an hour after we'd hoped to be on the road, we were finally pulling
out of the driveway. She was in the middle of the backseat, buckled in between a fluffy new comforter, and an awkward stack of running shoes, a hamper full of bath towels, and a small trash can, currently storing a surge protector, her hairbrush, and four kinds of chargers. A neighbor who had babysat for her when she was little, stopped by for a good luck hug,
and handed over a tray of coffee cups from the cafe, and a bag of rolls and muffins from the bakery. So we each had a warm cup in hand, as we made our way through the streets of our neighborhood. I was thinking about her riding her bike, up and down these familiar blocks. Her and her Halloween costume, running back to me on the sidewalk between each front porch,
To tell me what treat she'd gotten.
Her running over the curb had the corner, while she was learning to drive.
“I turned to my face to the window, and tried to take a deep breath, reminding myself that”
she would be home for Thanksgiving, and never more than a few hours away.
She reached her hand up from the backseat, and squeezed my shoulder, and I leaned one damn cheek against it. She was good like that, even so young still, she could be with me, with us, with her friends, and the kids she coached in track, and just let us feel how we felt, not try to jostle us out of it before we were ready, just stay a moment with us.
“I padded her hand with mine, sat up a bit taller in the passenger seat, rolled my shoulders”
back, and sniffed, sure those weren't the last tears of the day.
Still, I felt a little lighter for shedding them, for remembering how proud I was of her. The leaves at the tops of the trees along the highway were turning, and when we stopped for gas, an hour out of town, and I stepped out of the car to stretch my legs, the breeze was cool, and fresh. We wandered into the shop, and I laughed at myself, remembering the road trips when she was
little, when we'd had to negotiate in these moments.
One thing, she could get one thing, not a drink, and a candy bar, not gum and chips, just one. Now I was offering her everything I saw, was she hungry, was she thirsty, I asked, did she
“need one of these key chains, with her initial on it?”
They have granola bars, I told her. I'm good, she said, again, and again, yes, you are, I affirmed and dropped an arm full of snacks and so does on the counter anyway. Back on the road, creeping closer to college, I heard her breath get slow and deep. She opened the visor mirror to peek into the back seat.
She was asleep, her head tipped onto the stack of bath towels, I'd washed and folded the day before. I wanted them to at least start out smelling like home. In the front seat, we whispered about her, held hands over the cold coffee cups in the console, orientation is tomorrow.
She needs to be at the library by nine, yes, dear. You have mentioned that a few times, I know just helps me to talk through it. When we got off the expressway, my nudged her knee and teased her with the lie nice to say to her when she was a kid. Put your shoes on, baby, where at grandma's house, she smiled at me with her eyes still shut.
She hadn't decided on a major yet, hadn't even decided if she wanted to try out for the track team, we're just run for fun when she had the time. I wondered if it was as clear to her as it was to us that the world was her oyster, that
All roads lay open before her, and that she could excel in and enjoy so many ...
I tried to remember what I had understood about my own life when I was in the same spot.
“I think I only saw a few feet in front of me, only to the end of the semester.”
The auditions for the spring show, the summer job back home, that short sightedness had had me frequently turning too far in one direction, then overcorrecting in the
other, that had taken a while to land my feet on a path that felt right.
“How would it be for her in the parking lot of her dorm, there were dozens of the same”
scene playing out with slightly different components, here with siblings, here with a grand parent, or a family friend, there with fancier furniture, or fewer boxes.
We all tromped up the stairs, or rode the elevators, carried in cartons, and attempted
“to help make up beds, eventually there was nothing left to do.”
All mates had been met, bookshelved stocked, desks moved about from maximum space. As we walked back out to the station wagon, with her in between us, our arms over each other's shoulders. I saw the beautiful commons, noticed the old brick buildings, the archways and worn iron benches, and remembered that this was exciting, and about her. So when I caught her up for one last hug, there was a genuine smile on my face. I can't wait to see, I whispered in her ear,
and you'll do next. Moving in, the station wagon was packed, and it had been unpacked and re-packed twice already. We'd been putting things together, all summer, a box of books here, a desk lamp, and shower catty there, and it hadn't seemed like much stuff. And it came in a piece at a time, but as we began to wedge things into the back of the wagon, all of it seemed to have multiplied while we weren't looking. Sheets and comforter, pillows,
and a new book bag, laundry baskets, full of clean, folded clothes, a bundle of hangers, shower slippers, and toiletries, and her favorite snacks to see her through study sessions. We fussed over how to arrange it all, doing our best to leave no hoodie or extension cord behind.
She was so much less worried about it all than we were, which we suppose was ...
how it should be. She was looking ahead, to a year of adventure, new friends, new experiences.
We were holding on to the rhythms of the life we'd lived together. Since we brought her home from the hospital in her car seat, it made, making sure she had the shampoo she liked,
“feel very important to us, less so to her. By mid-morning, only about an hour after we'd hoped”
to be on the road, we were finally pulling out of the driveway.
She was in the middle of the backseat, buckled in between a fluffy new comforter, and an awkward stack of running shoes, a hamper full of bath towels, and a small trash can, currently holding
“a surge protector, her hairbrush, and four kinds of chargers. A neighbor who had babysat for her”
when she was little stopped by for a good luck hug, and handed over a tray of coffees from the cafe, and a bag of rolls, and muffins from the bakery. So we each had a warm cup in hand, as we made our way through the streets of our neighborhood. I was thinking about her riding her bike
“up and down these familiar blocks, her in her Halloween costume, coming back to me on the sidewalk”
between each front porch to tell me what treat she'd gotten, her running over the curb at the corner while she was learning to drive. I turned my face to the window and tried to take a deep breath, reminding myself that she would be home for Thanksgiving,
and never more than a few hours away. She reached her hand up from the backseat
and squeezed my shoulder, and I leaned one damp cheek against it. She was good like that, even so young still, she could be with me, with us, with her friends, and the kids she coached in track, and just let us feel how we felt, not tried to jostle us out of it before we were ready to stay a moment with us.
I padded her hand with mine and sat up a bit taller in the passenger seat,
rolled my shoulders back and sniffed, sure that those weren't the last tears of the day.
“Still, I felt a little lighter for shedding them, for remembering how proud I was of her.”
The leaves at the tops of the trees along the highway were turning and when we stopped for gas, an hour out of town, and I stepped out of the car to stretch my legs.
The breeze was cool and fresh. We wandered into the shop and I laughed at myself,
remembering the road trips when she was little, when we'd had to negotiate in these moments. One thing, she could get one thing, not a drink and a candy bar, not gum and chips, just one. Now, I was offering her everything I saw, was she hungry, was she thirsty, I asked.
“Did she need one of these key chains with her initial on it?”
They have granola bars, I told her. I'm good, she said, again and again.
Yes, you are, I affirmed and dropped an arm full of snacks and so does on the counter anyway. Back on the road and creeping closer to college, I heard her breath gets slow and deep, and I opened the visor mirror to peek into the back seat.
“She was asleep. Her head tipped onto the stack of bath towels,”
I'd washed and folded the day before. I wanted them to at least start out, smelling like home. In the front seat, we whispered about her. Nailed hands, over the cold coffee cups in the console. Orientation is tomorrow. She needs to be at the library by nine.
Yes, my dear. You have mentioned that a few times. I know, it just helps me to talk through it. When we got off the expressway, I nudged her knee, and teased her with a line I used to say to her when she was a kid, put your shoes on, baby. We're at grandma's house.
She smiled at me with her eyes still shut. She hadn't decided on a major yet. hadn't even decided if she wanted to try out for the track team or just run for fun when she had
The time.
That all roads lay open before her.
When that, she could excel in and enjoy. So many things. I tried to remember what I had understood about my own life.
“When I was in the same spot, I think I only saw a few feet in front of me.”
Only to the end of the semester, the auditions for the spring show,
the summer job back home, the short sightedness, had had me frequently turning, too far in one direction, the nover correcting in the other. It had taken a while to land my feet on a path that felt right, how would it be for her?
“In the parking lot of her dorm, there were dozens of the same scene playing out”
with slightly different components here with siblings.
Here with a grandparent or a family friend. There with fancier furniture or fewer boxes. We all trumped up the stairs or rode the elevators,
“carried in cartons, and attempted to make up beds.”
Eventually, there was nothing left to do. Roomates had been met, bookshelved stocked, desks moved about for maximum space. As we walked back out to the station wagon, with her between us, our arms over each other's shoulders.
I saw the beautiful comments noticed the old brick buildings, the archways, and worn iron benches, and remembered that this was exciting and about her. So when I caught her up for one last hug, there was a genuine smile on my face. I can't wait to see my whispered in her ear.
What you'll do next? Sweet dreams.
