I don’t know why I feel the need to control my environment, but I do. Maybe it would come out, after $200/hour in counseling, that it’s a response to my parent’s divorce, 20 years ago. Or maybe it’s just genetic: my mom and her brother Dave exhibit similar behaviors. We compulsively sort, rearrange, reconstruct, preserve. It’s all about order, I think.

Kids change things. That forces me to confront this desire on a daily basis: how much am I willing to accept? Here, in the bathroom, I’m surrounded by random things: two water-friendly Barbies, a variety of hair ties, toothbrushes, pens. Why do we have pens in the bathroom? Just wondering.

The bedrooms are torn apart. Occasionally, we take time putting them back together – but what’s the point, really? I wish I could accept things differently. I can’t. Combine caffeine, and the feeling of being cooped-up, and my back stiffens. I have to consciously tell myself to lean back, breath, and relax. If I wanted things perfect, I would need to live alone.

Categories: Errata