One of my “things” is that I like to have everything in its place. I mean physical objects. In my house. Or wherever. I want “stuff” to have a home, and I want said stuff to “be” in its home. For me, stuff out of place is a distraction. It’s clutter. It creates static. I have a harder time concentrating if I rest my eyes someplace and they fall upon some stupid shit in some stupid place. Great. Another thing for me to do.
Likewise, having things put away makes my heart happy. It soothes me. I like blankets folded. I like toys put away after they guys go to bed. I like silverware all nestled together in their correct little cubbies. Sleep tight, silverware!
Not that we live like this. Not even before kids. Because I live with one other adult who doesn’t have this same urge that I do. And regardless of our efforts to stem the tide, our house is a constant influx of stuff that doesn’t have a home.
And really, I have to be honest, we spent a lot of time downsizing a few years ago. I still believe in making thoughtful purchases and reducing the amount of crap in our lives.
But this past weekend I bought a pancake griddle. We also have a whirly pop for popcorn. I recently bought not one, but two, toy boxes for the boys’ stuff. One of our rocking chairs is permanent home to a yoga ball. I just bought a giant tent thing for the boys. I mean, they *love* it, but it’s a giant tent thing.
I suppose you could safely say that our downsizing is on hiatus.
So. This is my kid.
This is his default expression. He has concerned resting face. He’s just thinking. About stuff.
He wants things in their place. This is a newish development and it has come on strong. If something is out of place, he likes to point where it goes.
He also wants to help, often by bringing objects to their rightful owners. He frequently scoops up Loyal’s treasured little tiger (with the dirty butt) and brings it to him. I once swept in the door from running errands, and Casc brought me my sweater that I wear around the house. He even knows which slippers are Papa’s, and which ones are Mama’s.
This kid. I just want to scoop him up and squeeze him until he pops.