Obsessions

Every time we leave our house, the kids feel this uncontrollable need to carry armloads of toys, books, dolls, stuffed animals, crayons, cars, motorcycles and any other imaginable objects they might find suitable for play in the car. It doesn’t matter if we’re driving five minutes or five hours, it’s the same thing, every time. I’ve asked them to come to the car, empty-handed. I only get looks of bewilderment, as if I’ve asked them to leave the house without their arms or legs. I've requested that they humor me, "just bring one toy, please, I'm sure that's all you need," I've begged. I'm always reminded of the scene from “The Jerk” when Navin Johnson hits bottom and leaves his house, carrying the only things he needs: the ashtray, the remote control, the paddle game, the chair, and a magazine.

I wouldn’t mind so much, but they don’t bring all the crap back into the house when we return. Furthermore, the items that do actually get brought back in, usually end up strewn about the living room. Don't even get me started on the times when they forget said objects at the place where we've gone.

Be the parent, one might say to me. Put your foot down. Well, I must say, it’s not as easy as one might think. They sneak out of the house before I notice all the things they’ve carried. Sometimes we’re running late, and I just don’t have time to discuss the same thing we’ve discussed 500 times. And, quite honestly, I don’t want to listen to the whine that follows if I actually take the stuff away.

Lilah is rather normal in comparison to the other two. She’ll decide on a couple of toys and a book and she’s set.

Emma has it the worst. I would go so far as to say she’s obsessed with stuff. She’s quite crafty about her obsession. She’ll be the first one to walk out the door. She sneaks by me before I’ve had the chance to inventory all her stuff. She fills a bag sometimes, and stands ready to go by the car, looking all innocent, trying to hide the fact that she’s packed- conceal and carry I say. Last night, before leaving for Aunt Amy’s house, Emma was waiting by the car, with her little arms full of the following items: 5 little ponies, 1 large unicorn, a stuffed lion dressed in a Packer’s jersey, a shampoo cap with a little pony on top, a tiny stuffed mouse, and Woodstock, the bird from Peanuts. HELP! One time, during her obsession-with-toilet paper-phase, she snuck a whole roll of T.P. in her shirt. I noticed when she was having trouble buckling her carseat straps over her enlarged abdomen. That girl certainly is a quirky one.

Gavin has his own quirks when we’re heading out the door. First and foremost, the boy is never ready when it’s time to go, hence the nickname given to him by Uncle Bob: G-Dawdle. I wonder how many times in my life so far I’ve said, “Come on, Gavin!” or “Let’s go, Gavin!” That being said, when I finally get him to walk out the door, he realizes that both Emma and Lilah have toys to bring along for the ride. Then, he decides he needs some obscure toy we haven’t seen in months, and isn’t satisfied until he finds it. I realize that, A. I help him find the toy, or B. I listen to him carry on, and on, and on... So, I usually opt for helping him find the toy, or by some small miracle, I talk him into something else, a little more accessible. Ok, now he’s found the thing that makes him happy, he gets into the car, satisfied, and starts buckling. I’m finally in the driver’s seat and turn back to see if everyone’s ready, when I notice Gavin isn’t wearing any shoes.

The aspect of this whole, reccurring drama that I find most compelling is, I’ve grown so accustomed to it, that it almost seems normal.