Self Proclaimed Type-A Sickie

I can almost breath again. My head has just emerged from a sea of stuff, also known as Christmas gifts.

For those of you who know me, you are aware of the fact that I struggle severely with my Type-A personality that strives to have everything in its rightful place.

It's that Type-A in me that constantly has me picking up the little things that are strewn about the house.

It's that Type-A in me that causes me much stress when there are disheveled papers on the kitchen table.

It's that Type-A in me that causes my heart to skip a beat when my kids soil their brand-new clothes. Or any clothes for that matter.

It's that Type-A in me that refrains me from dressing my kids in their brand-new clothes for fear that they may do what all young children do--soil them.

It's that Type-A in me that keeps from using my dishwasher because in my mind it means I have unfinished business.

It's that Type-A in me that refuses the help of a live-in housekeeper because the last two I had failed miserably at folding the clothes the way I liked them and were not able to put the kids' clothes in the correct places.

It's that Type-A in me that had me ripping down my Christmas tree, just hours after Christmas was over, due to the fact that it was causing clutter in the family room. Furthermore, I about had a heart attack when my husband tried to lighten my load, demanding the kids to clean up and organize their new Christmas gifts.

"Alright guys, let's clean up. Stick your new toys back under the Christmas tree! And do it now!"

Are you kidding me? I was in their play room, emptying it of organizing it's old contents, trying to make room for the new, and his idea of organizing was cramming the five-hundred presents back under the tree. Had he not taken note, in the past four years, of my toy organization skills?

He has for sure seen the endless number of plastic bins, neatly labeled with a picture and the title of it's contents, stacked from floor to ceiling in the playroom closet. I know this for sure because I have more than once been reprimanded, "Why on earth are you bringing another plastic bin into this house when we have 100 of them already?" I can't fathom how he can not understand that each toy needs it's own home.

Legos, in one bin-Mr. Potato Head in another. Barbies in one bin-Transformers in another. And the list goes on.

Just as my husband fails to understand my need to organize, my son Isaac fails to understand why the great-big box that once housed Annie's new Dora the Explorer, battery-operated quad, is now housing about 35 percent of the toys that were in his playroom. Toys that he hasn't noticed or touched in at least the past 3 months are immediately very important to him. The rubber lizard that has lost half of it's "black bean innards" is suddenly his favorite. He was heartbroken that I even considered giving away the flying disk toy that hasn't worked correctly since the day he got it. After I explained that he was more than welcome to keep them if he gave away one of his new toys, he had a change of heart.

And then, there is the clothing situation. No amount of organizing could help my kids' closets. They are so packed full of clothes, I had to put all my weight into the hangers to make room for more. I hang all of their new clothes on one side--each morning when I enter their closets to make the clothes selection for the day, I always make my first selection from this "new clothes section." I excitedly pluck a new outfit from its hanger and imagine how cute the kids will look in it.

Then, my Type-A personality rears its ugly head. I imagine all of the activities the kids will participate in that day-breakfast, lunch, dinner, playing outside, coloring with ink pens, eating an orange- and my heart skips a beat. As quickly as I plucked it off the hanger, I return it to it's original place, leaving it where I know it will stay clean. I grab the trusty play-clothes, knowing that I will be less anxious when something gets spilled on them. I will be less likely to rip into my kids if a drop of chocolate falls on the shirt that has already been scrubbed free of stains.

I know--I have issues.

I know--I could probably use some therapy.

And I also know, that if I don't get over this quickly, I will create this same neurosis in my children.

Maybe after my head has completely emerged from the sea of stuff, I will make a trip to the local book store and find a self-help book with a title along the lines of "Controlling the Inner Type-A Personality--A Guide to Freedom."

Better yet, I'll head to the local library--I can return the book when I'm done with it so it doesn't clutter up my book shelf!