I am the first to admit that I am a TypeA personality; isn't admitting you have a problem the first step?
Being a mom for almost a decade (dude, that statement - while true - is also freaky to see in type) has refined my TypeA-ness to a new level.
I menu plan.
I build lists of what winter gear my kids will need for the coming winter while we're still slathering on sunscreen.
I am the Queen of the Schedule.
Most of this I do out of sheer necessity; without basic organization and someone like me keeping track of time, people, and important resources like money and popsicles, the wheels would fall off the Thomas Family Bus.
But my TypeA-ness becomes a pain in my very own keister when I contemplate the sheer amount of stuff that living with three kids means for our home.
They have toys. Lots of them.
They have clothes. Lots of them - many of which are sitting in one stage or another of the laundry evolution, all except for the done-and-put-away-stage.
Two of them are in school so there are lots and lots and lots of papers. All of which are very important and can never, ever be put stealthily into the recycling bin while they sleep.
After all these years (oh, how simple that first year with Becky was, when all her toys fit into one small Rubbermaid tote), I've discovered that no matter what amount of kick-ass organizational systems I try to install or create, the amount of stuff my children have is so vast, so filled with teeny-tiny small parts (oh Dear Lord, please send NO MORE LEGOS to my home any time in the near future, Amen) that I and my TypeA-ness cannot compete.
Even when things are picked up, chaos lurks; all it takes is one long holiday weekend and BOOM! In every corner of every room, in the kitchen drawers, even across my bathroom sink (where Huck decided to make some quick index card art with his new stapler) kidstuff is strewn.
No where can I go in my house without seeing some mess, some task, someTHING that needs doing, picking up, putting away.
Most days, I just deal with it and do it but some days, the frustration rolls over me as I realize that my home isn't just a home but my workplace, too; to get any true relaxation I have to leave home for a few hours.
Which of course necessitates a certain amount of planning, of bending the schedule and all the other TypeA things that get me stressed out in the first place.
The irony kills me.