STEVE AND I are well matched in many ways. We laugh at the same jokes, like the same books, and have similar philosophies of life. One major difference, however, is that Steve is highly organized and is a very methodical thinker, and I am neither.
In today’s politically correct nomenclature, I call myself ‘Organizationally Challenged.’ In my world, a certain amount of clutter works. Steve, the anti-clutter, and others like him don’t understand.
Recently my husband asked me if I believed in luck. He was reading a survey from a men’s magazine in which 85% of respondents answered, “Yes”. Without hesitation I stated, “No. I believe you make your own luck”, then added, “Luck is where preparation and opportunity meet”; quoting some business success book I’d read.
Did you hear that? Me neither. And it’s the most beautiful sound around – silence. My husband is at work and my kids, after 12 loud, active, busy, arguing with me and each other weeks, are finally back to school.
I love summer and always look forward to it, but it’s those last few weeks when camps are over and the prevailing whine is, “I’m bored, I’m hungry or my brother is bothering me” (or all three at once, which I call the anxiety trifecta), that lets me know it is time for summer to end. I’m not alone in thinking this. I have been running into other mothers who greet each other with the cryptic phrase, “It’s almost time”. I can see the visions of solo coffee lattes dancing in their heads.
I tried to quit, really. And I did quit for six months. My story isn’t much different from everyone else. I started about twenty years ago. I thought it made me look cool. I wanted to be part of the in-crowd. I thought I could control it, but it ended up controlling me. It became my trademark. It was as if they were an extension of my hands.
But, lately, I started thinking. Everyone knows it’s bad for you, and there’s the expense. I added it up and figured I was spending about fifty dollars a month on this addictive habit. So I quit - cold turkey.
It was hard at first. I felt brittle, ready to crack at any moment. Sure there are products out there that help you through the transition, but I couldn’t figure out what to do with my hands. But within a few weeks I felt stronger, cleaner, and more myself. I thought I was done with it, but just yesterday I lost the battle and went back.
I just realized I have adult ADD, and conveniently, there is now a medication available that can give me the efficiency and clarity I’ve always desired.
I was sitting at my son’s orthodontist appointment and I picked up an article which talked about this disorder in adults, and as I read it I realized they could have been describing the struggles I’ve felt my whole life. The way you diagnose yourself is to go down a list of behavioral traits and check off those that apply- disorganized, check; constantly losing things, check; inability to complete a task, check; interrupting conversations, check.
I admit it. I am obsessed with my hair - and not in a good way. Like my Jewish, peasant forbearers, I am plagued by wavy, puffy hair which expands at the slightest hint of humidity. I have always wondered what could possibly have been the evolutionary survival advantage that propagated this type of hair? My mom had fine, straight hair, but all three of us girls inherited my dad’s hair, and growing up in the age of Cher Bono made it all the worse.
Do you know the joke that goes, “There are three kinds of people, those that are good at math and those that aren’t”? I can relate to that joke because I’m firmly in the “aren’t” category. This is common knowledge around my house and, consequently, my school age children have long since banned me from helping them with their math homework. But I believe there is a corollary to that joke where there really is a third category: Those that are good at math, those that aren’t good at math, and thirdly, those that don’t like math but are, nonetheless, addicted to Sudoku.
I'd like to think I have reached an age where I can be myself without worrying about what other people think. Of course, I'd also like to think I can still wear a bikini in public but obviously wishing don't make it so. But bikini aside, I thought I had this self-acceptance thing down.
However, I met a very accomplished woman the other day and all she had to do was pose one question to have me doubting the very worth of my life.
At my request my husband, Steve, took a few days off last week creating a long weekend. It was my birthday and I wanted us to spend some unscheduled time together. Steve takes days off on occasion but they are almost always because we are going on vacation or have some other obligation that demands our time. So this was unusual because a four day weekend lay before us with no specific scheduling demands.
Just like nature abhors a vacuum, Steve abhors unscheduled time. He felt compelled to fill this scheduling vacuum with a productive activity, in this case “A Summer Cleaning”.
Becoming a parent is empowering on many levels. You are given this new life to mold and protect. You will never, you vow, yell irrationally, loose your temper, or, otherwise, give your children reason to blame their problems on you in therapy years later. We would present well-adjusted, happy and undamaged children to the world.
Before I had kids, I would see parents screaming at theirs in public as the kids melted down, and I’d scoff with superiority. I would never do such a thing. My children would know their limits, and if they didn’t, I would calmly explain the consequences and they would intelligently make the right choices.
