Your zillennial can find Wi-Fi but not socks
· Citizen
There are few sounds more alarming than your doorbell ringing at 7pm, followed by the unmistakable sigh of a neighbour who has reached her limit.
You open the door and there she is; slightly wild-eyed, clutching a reusable coffee cup, ready to unload a detailed report on her zillennial child’s latest offence against a domestic order.
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I usually have to listen and nod gravely. Zillennial complaints require the same seriousness normally reserved for power outages or potholes.
I hear about hands that mysteriously stop functioning near dishcloths, rooms that resemble post-apocalyptic bunkers and a teenager who can locate Wi-Fi signals from three suburbs away but cannot find socks in a sock drawer.
I do not interrupt. This is not a neighbourly chat, it is a purge.
At this stage I must resist the urge to offer solutions. My neighbour does not want advice. She has already tried chore charts, reward systems, threats, inspirational speeches and once – briefly – prayer. Suggesting “have you tried taking their phone away?” may result in her laughing hysterically or quietly weeping.
Instead, deploy sympathetic phrases such as: “Yes, mine too.” “It’s the generation.” Or “I think it’s hormonal… or Wi-Fi-related”. These words are safe. They will not get you hurt. Believe me.
Then comes the list. This includes how the child cannot carry groceries because “their wrists hurt,” cannot take out the bins due to “mental overload” and cannot mow the lawn because it is “bad for their personal brand”.
Yet, somehow, these same wrists can game for six to eight hours straight without complaint.
At this point, I may or may not be shown photos. This is my fate.
This is usually when I gently redirect the conversation toward humour, and say something like, “At least they’re consistent,” or “Well, archaeologists will love that bedroom one day.” Laughter is the only known antidote to zillennial fatigue.
If the neighbour escalates into philosophical despair, questioning where she went wrong as a parent, I offer reassurance. Zillennials are not broken. They are merely selectively operational.
Their hands work perfectly for snacks, phones, and opening food deliveries. Domestic tasks fall outside their software update.
When she has wound down, I offer her tea, or wine.
And, when she leaves, I feel oddly comforted because, while her zillennial may be exhausting, mine is just as exhausting.