Books-a-lot

I can blame it on the dog we don’t have, or my agitating ability to jump from one to ten thoughts within a ten second period forgetting all about the former nine thoughts and finally hyper-focusing on the third thought. But ultimately, the finger points at me (not the middle, just the index). Evidence of my piles are scattered about the house. It never used to be this way. Before my apparent reincarnation, I was described as a tight “a”, cleany meany, spic and spanner, white glove czar, and donkey. So why, when stumbling and knocking over my chest high pile of books I still haven't read yet, would my sweet Edward Sean, compare me to the “hoarder” -- you know that sick, oh-so-sick woman featured on Oprah a few months ago because her house was so packed with so much stuff, they found rat poop, mold, and rotten food hidden under piles of crapola. I reminded Edward Sean it is just a stack of 20 or so "virgin" books, and it has many important household purposes, like a launch pad for leaping into bed after a long day, bookmark organizers, and a quick way to act busy when the boys ask me the same question four times. Besides, I’m at least 10 pages into all of them. Just give me six more months on the treadmill, and it will dwindle, I promise. "Virgin books?" he says. "Let's read them together..."


I’m certain I’ve passed this crazy obsession onto my beloved offspring. Diary of a Wimpy Kid and Captain Underpants can be found lying in the hallway, on top of the washing machine, under the couch next to the hard piece of hotdog from dinner four nights ago, and my favorite -- on the top of the toilets (which by the way I consider dangerous since I read that horrifying news story about the woman’s hiney getting fused to the toilet seat. Folks, when using the toilet, read in moderation).

My little one has not been spared from this sickness. Bobby Banjo came to me the other day and said, “I want Diarrhea of a Wimpy Kid, Mom. Wead it pwease.”

Hey Jeff Kinney, if you’re reading, and don’t be shy please comment, my boys giggle when saying your name. You are a rock star with purple hair in this house. It is not uncommon for Drew and Clay to burst into fits of laughter multiple times, their heads bouncing behind the artwork on both covers. Two weeks ago Clay got in trouble for the very first time ever at school because he organized a rowdy game of “cheese touch,” a scene taken from DOAWK. We cheered him on for getting his first warning, ruffled his hair and said, “Atta boy.”


I want to know what books you have in your pile, even if there are rat droppings attached.