Just another fork in road to adulthood

One recent morning, I rose early to — of all things — alphabetize my spices.

It was one of those compulsive domestic tasks I’ve avoided during 30 years of marriage. But soon there they were, allspice to white pepper, lined up neatly on my kitchen counter.

It was a project that only a daughter could inspire.

And, sure enough, one did. Our younger daughter was moving into her first apartment in Seattle that week. She called to say, “Hey, Mom, if you have any extra kitchen stuff, could you bring it over?”

So I packed up my surplus jars of peppercorns and chili powder, the Wedgewood blue spatula with the melted spot on the handle and a set of plastic measuring cups I’d never liked much anyway. Soon the back of the Toyota was overflowing. We loaded up boxes of old Club aluminum sauce pans and coffee mugs, Hefty bags of hand-me-down sheets, and even, I later discovered to my chagrin, one of my favorite bed pillows. Off my very own bed.

That part was a mistake. But the rest of it, the careful culling from the linen closet and the bathroom cupboards, the kitchen drawers and the spider-filled recesses of the basement, was designed – much as an old-fashioned wedding shower used to be – to mitigate the cost of setting up a small household.

Today’s young adults postpone careers and marriage longer now, a move that may look like individualism but actually reflects the economy. It takes more time now to gain the education and work experience needed to launch a career.

So the 20s have become one very long transition on the road to adulthood.

Young adults now are more likely to decorate with the help of Value Village and Urban Outfitters, eat sushi or volunteer at a soup kitchen than they are to pursue such traditional adult activities as reading a newspaper, attending a church service or joining a political party.

The same day I alphabetized my spices, a book landed on my desk: “50 Ways to Leave Your Mother” by a stay-at-home Mukilteo, Wash., mom, Chris Salditt. I called her to compare notes.

It turned out Salditt, too, recently sent two daughters into the world of rental households and revolving roommates, sketchy neighborhoods and housekeeping mysteries.

She watched as they and their friends floundered and grew. And she employed her sense of humor to write a book of advice. (A couple of her best tips: Buy a coffee pot. The cost of a $3 espresso drink a day adds up to $1,095 a year, plus tips. And keep a secret stash of toilet paper in your bedroom. It’ll save you from flaky roommates who forget to restock.)

She finds it ironic that baby boomers, the generation that gave America’s children cell phones, iPods and select soccer, manages to send kids into the world who don’t know how to bake a potato. She includes the recipe in her book. (Don’t forget to poke it with a fork!)

Underneath the laughter, we shared some concern about the future.

Baby boomer moms keep an eye on the job market and carry a sense of unease about issues like health insurance. We all know kids who wing their way through this decade without any.

In Washington state, young adults make up approximately 44 percent of the uninsured. And, according to research by The Commonwealth Fund, their numbers are rising across the country.

In 2004, 13.7 million young adults lacked health insurance coverage, up 2.5 million since 2000.

Once we clean out our basements and pass on our favorite recipes, maybe it’ll be time to rally our collective energy to press for health-care reform. (Two states, Massachusetts and Vermont, already have enacted laws to create near-universal care.)

In the meantime, we’re doing what moms tend to do when the future looks uncertain: We pack up boxes of stuff – a paring knife, a wooden spoon, a bag of granola bars – and stand poised with our best advice.

Some of it, acquired in our own young adulthood, may be irrelevant.

My first set of silverware was registered at a local jewelry store and bought by wedding guests. Last week my daughter and I bought hers from a thrift store bin at 15 cents apiece.

Each of my table knives and soup spoons matched. My daughter’s – not so much.

But as I gazed at the grin on her face as she moved in, I knew that both hard work and fun lie ahead.

Like much of her generation, she’s poised to scoop up life in great, recycled forkfuls.