Recently, I've been getting handy with my needle and thread -- a dangerous pastime for someone who never took Home Ec. (The Catholic schools lack the resources, I guess, or maybe it's because the nuns believe the five paragraph essay is a more useful life tool than sewing, puh-heh!) I stitched a button into one of my jackets for work and last night Lovey Loverpants pulled it from the laundry basket and my face nearly split in half when he started to yank on the sleeve with the newly-stitched button. "Wait, whatareyoudoing??? WAIT, don't do that! That took me a WAY LONG TIME, DON'TRUINIT!"
Somewhere in his male brain, when Lovey is told to put something down or leave something alone, a voice titillates his conscience saying, "Keep fiddling around. Don't stop fiddling just because wifey told you to stop fiddling. Fiddle. Fiddle on, young fiddler."
Even though the button in my sleeve stayed in tact, I realized for the first time that if our child takes after his/her father, the rest of my life is going to be spent on the verge of a conniption fit. I just don't understand? Why must hubby persist when told to pump his brakes? Why must he be so tactile-oriented, so reluctant to let sleeping dogs lie? I don't think this is a fair penance. I grew up with a special needs brother. I reined in plenty of ADHD tots in my babysitting days. Ones that would wait for their parents' departure and at the sound of the door slamming, would wield a nine iron golf club and crack it right into the newly installed basement door. Awesome.
Have I not paid my dues? Oh that our child could be just like his/her mama. Astute, focused. Useless for anything other than the five paragraph essay.