Friday, August 01, 2008

All my balls are in a row now

I have a little boy who dearly loves balls. He speaks the word about a hundred times a day. He has several toys that involve balls, balls to pound through holes with a hammer, balls to put in the top of a tower and watch bounce and clack loudly through a maze, a basketball and a hoop. Every night, I go through the house gathering up balls from under tables and couches and wherever else they may end up.

I'm borderline obsessed with keeping the balls with the proper toy and keeping them from going under the sofa. If the toys aren't kept together with all their various parts, then it's no fun to play with them. Right? Of course, Josee, you're not obsessive compulsive at all.

Anyhow, tonight I watched Jim and Danny play with the ball tower and cringed every time a newly flushed out ball headed toward my nemesis, the ball-swallowing sofa. Danny thought my reaction was hilarious. Then, Jim started putting the balls for the ball tower with the balls for the hammer-pounding toy. Then he used the hammer that didn't go with that toy to pound the balls. Cringe. Twitch. All I could think was "Where is the hammer that goes with that toy?" Next, I noticed that one ball was missing from the set. Jim started telling me that he cracked the ball while playing golf in the backyard. I started getting a little edgy, not sure whether he was joking . I figured he was, you know ... Irish eyes were smiling. When I finally found the ball about an hour ago, I actually got excited. It's not like I was looking for it that whole time; I'm not that crazy. Well, I think you were, subconsciously, Josee.

I guess I just need to feel in control of something, you know? Does that make me crazy? No, no, of course not. You're fine, just fine. Go to bed, Josee. All the balls are in the right place, even that last white one you just found. Shhhhh. Everything is okay.

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