This summer is all about making it through... again

I used to be "productive" but it feels like those days are gone

During the summers of 2020 and 2021, I full-time parented my three young children, part-time parented a few stray neighborhood kids who showed up at our door most mornings, and somehow made more money writing than I ever had before.

Those were my most productive summers ever. At least on paper. Or rather, on the spreadsheet I keep to track my annual income.

I remember on many an endless day, setting up a sprinkler on the driveway under the hot Florida sun so my kids could get their swimsuits on (or maybe just stay in their pajamas from the night before) and have at it while I typed away on my laptop in the shade of our small front porch. The sounds of wet little feet slapping against concrete and squeals of laughter filled the humid air as I raced to write 90-word radio ad scripts about Pierre’s Piano Plaza in beautiful downtown Peoria.

Sweat dripped from my forehead onto the keyboard as the outside temperature crept toward triple digits. Or was it rogue drops of water from the sprinkler or a contraband water gun that fell into the wrong hands? Probably both. It didn’t matter much. I was only interested in survival and writing a 30-second ad for Mike’s Mortuary that would break your heart a little and encourage you to take advantage of their Red, Hot, and Boom Buy One Coffin, Get One Free Sale.

My “job” was one of those weird global pandemic, pre-AI era ones that was pretty clearly exploitive but also just financially rewarding enough to make it appear worthwhile if you squinted your eyes and tilted your head at just the right angle.

I wrote ads on my laptop while the kids were playing or watching their screens. I tapped away on my phone at the playground where I took my daughter after we dropped her older brothers off at nature camp. It’s a safe bet that at some point, I probably frequented an imaginary lemonade stand while simultaneously and surreptitiously writing an ad for a real lemonade kiosk in Mobile, Alabama.

I wrote more than 10,000 ads in two years while my kids grew up around me. And unsurprisingly, because capitalism has trained us to quantify success by productivity and earnings, I felt more accomplished than ever. I joked about how stupid the job was—because, objectively, racing to write radio ads that likely never aired is stupid. But I was secretly proud of it.

I made between $1 and around $25 per ad, averaging out to around $8 a pop, which, if you do the quick math, you’ll notice, ended up being real money. In fact, I made more money in those two years than I ever did working a full-time traditional job. Of course, there were no benefits or paid time off, and I wrote nearly a thousand ads during Thanksgiving week two years in a row, but looking at just the raw pay, it was a pretty decent gig.

It also allowed me to avoid childcare costs. My wife works full-time outside the home, and as working parents know, summers are particularly challenging and expensive.

Did I miss out on things with my kids because I was preoccupied with capturing projects as they came in and speed writing on them? Sure. But honestly, there is only so much time you can spend with children. Most people, including me, can’t be engaged and fully locked in with kids for 14 hours a day.

Looking back at it now, I truly don’t know how I did it.

As I sit here at my cluttered dining room table (there are two Easter baskets still sitting here for some reason, along with other mostly unidentifiable detritus), attempting to write this article for probably the fifth time in two weeks, I marvel at how much less I seemingly do now compared to a few years ago.

My kids are older. My youngest two still want me to play sometimes, but it’s far from all-consuming. My oldest is thirteen, and he’s moved on almost completely. He’ll drop by randomly to talk to me about his jazz band or ask for food, but otherwise, we’re like cordial but distant co-workers in a shared office space.

It seems impossible that we’re on the cusp of yet another summer (didn’t school just start a few weeks ago?), but here we are. The days are getting longer and hotter. The rains have finally returned after an extended drought. The final standardized tests, which are apparently the only reason children go to school anymore, are complete.

Summer is here, and honestly, other than duck, I have very little to show for the school year that has quietly slipped away. Last year, I published a novel, the year before that, I wrote a novel, and the two years before that, I wrote about a million radio ads.

This year? I took a lot of naps in the morning and didn’t make enough money (my old ad writing job transitioned almost fully to AI). I cleaned out the bunny cages a lot. I stood around staring off into the middle distance while the new dog gnawed on my forearm for extended periods. I also spent an inordinate amount of time fantasizing about how far I’m willing to go if I see federal agents kidnapping my neighbors off the street. But such are the times we live in, I guess.

So it is that we enter the summer of survival. My expectations are extremely low. We have one out-of-state trip planned for July, and I’m dreading it because I’ve done a pretty good job keeping myself away from the world lately, and I’d rather keep things that way. It’s cowardly, but I don’t want to see what’s out there. I see enough horror in the news. Racism, genocide, ethnic cleansing, climate change, war, societal collapse. I’m scared to face it all.

I’m even more scared to face myself. I’m having a hard time grappling with the realization that when the stakes are high, I can’t be relied upon to make a difference. I’m just not that great of a person. I have empathy for others, sure, but when it comes to actually doing something to help stem the rising tide of fascism, I’ve dropped the ball. I spent two years writing radio ads while the world crumbled. I spent two more years writing a novel for no other reason than it felt like something to do.

This summer, I’m going to watch my kids grow up a little more. And I’m going to worry a lot about all the things I’m not doing. That’s the plan. Is it a good one? Nope. But it’s the best I’ve been able to come up with. Precarious mental health makes getting through each day a chore, and making plans beyond that about as possible as making it through a Florida summer without air conditioning.

I recognize I’m in a very privileged position. This summer is literally life or death for many. I suppose every summer is. Every season. Every moment. For me, the stakes probably aren’t that high (although I am scheduled to fly on an airplane, so you never know), but it still feels like a metaphorical struggle for survival.

I guess it might be about time to get the old sprinkler out again. There’s nothing like a few drops of nostalgia and that unmistakable stench of hose water to make a guy feel like everything is going to be okay.

Words and photos by me, Andrew Knott. Best known for duck.

Books:

Love’s a Disaster - contemporary fiction about a marriage proposal gone wrong, complicated families, second-chance love, Florida, sword fighting, and punk rock music.

Fatherhood: Dispatches From the Early Years - essays and humor about the very early years of my parenting journey

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