I caught myself ‘facing up’ boxes of bath soap tonight while in the shower. I seriously arranged them so all the box ends matched up and the stack of boxes were neatly on top of each other. I didn’t stop there. Oh no.
I then tidied up the whole shelf at the end of our bath. I neatly lined up all the bottles accordingly to size. Shampoo and conditioner went together, followed by nail polish remover, cotton balls, body scrub and dusty unused scented candles (for all those times I get to soak luxuriously in the bath). I did not do this because the shelf was messy. I did it because I could not stand the disorder. I thought, gee that’s a bit obsessive. Maybe I have control issues.
Then I thought because I knew what I was doing and recognised it that it couldn’t possibly be an issue, right? Then because I had realised what I was doing but chose to do it anyway I wondered if I was doing it just to have something to blog about. So does that mean I am attention seeking?
It’s no wonder Master 3 likes lining up same sized blocks. He also freaks out if he can’t find a lid in a matching colour to put on his Texta. He has to have his pillow case ‘around the right way’ before laying his head on it and will only wear specific items of non-Spiderman branded clothing. He has to have double light switches flicked in the same direction. It’s entirely my fault.
Strangely I don’t have obsessive tendencies towards doing the dishes, folding the clothes or picking up the toys. Nor can I apply this aspect of my personality to healthy eating and exercise. I do however, repeatedly check locks, check my children’s breathing when they sleep and count the edges of shapes and then the edges of the edges and the edges of those edges, and . . . you get it. I don’t ever have to worry about leaving the iron on though since I simply refuse to iron anything. I do wonder though how long it will be before I colour pair my pegs when hanging up the washing.
I am starting to think that this is a crap post. Maybe I shouldn’t post anything today rather than just write something lame. I hear Master 9 weeks crying, am I ever going to get some quiet time? Sighing, I wonder if I could be suffering from post natal depression . . .
I decide to keep typing because something might eventually materialise worth sharing. I am getting an anxious feeling in my gut. I begin to bite my nails and run my fingers through my hair . . . I wish I had the ability to select what I obsess about to my benefit. But I don’t. So, here goes.