As we all celebrated the resurrection of J.C. on Sunday with chocolate bunnies and cream-filled eggs, something from my own past was also brought back from the (almost) dead.
OCD.
I should have known it was going to be an interesting day when our 7-year-old woke at 4am, strolled wide-eyed into our room and asked if it was time to hunt for eggs. His excitement for Easter this year was…weird. He didn’t even wake up that early on Christmas morning. But in the days leading up to Easter, he was all hyped up, talking about the Easter bunny and what he was going to bring. I said, “Easter is not like Christmas, you know.” “I know, mom,” he said. “I just like to hunt for the eggs around the house.”
(As an aside, the day before Easter, said 7-year-old asked me if I knew why we got presents on Christmas. “Why?” I asked. “Because we’re celebrating Zeus,” he said. “And Zeus got presents.” “We get presents on Christmas because of a mythical Greek god? I think you mean Jesus,” I said. He sort of laughs as if he actually knows the mistake he’s made. “Yeah, Jesus,” he said. Perhaps it might be time for a little ad hoc religious education.)
Anyway, after we demanded he go back to bed, Braedan visited our room every 15 minutes or so (no lie) until we gave in at about 6:45 and told him “Yes, Yes. Hunt for eggs!”
Everything gets a little hazy after that, but from what I can piece together, in no time at all, all three kids were up. The boys find their Easter baskets, which I realized only the night before were totally disproportionate, but thank goodness the 4-year-old doesn’t notice things like that. They oohed and ahhed over the baskets’ contents for a few minutes while our baby girl squealed in excitement about her stuffed chick, rubber ducky and board book.
Then, before I knew it, the boys were commando rolling all over our tiny house and body checking each other in the race for eggs, while poor, tiny Aria was left to waddle around and eat the gold fish and animal crackers from her special eggs, the ones that were “hidden” directly ON HER HIGH CHAIR and which had already been cracked open in the fray, off the floor. Not that she seemed entirely upset about that. But I begin explaining (yelling) about the difference between the eggs anyway, and that surely the Easter Bunny left the Hello Kitty and Elmo eggs for the baby, and would you please beat on each other in the next room so that your sister can eat her treats off the floor in peace.
So the boys are racing around the house, both screeching “No fair” when the other finds an egg. I’m beginning to wonder how on earth I could still be campaigning for a fourth child. And my husband is sitting in the rocker in our daughter’s room with his eyes closed. “Don’t you want to witness all the festivities?” I ask. “It sounds really fun,” he says. But he doesn’t move or open his eyes.
Once the egg hunt is over, the boys commence a fresh argument about who got the coolest stuff in their eggs. Braedan found the golden egg with the $5 bill in it, but is complaining anyway because Colin opened an egg to find a 25 pesatas piece with a hole in it, which, according to Braedan, is the “coolest thing.”
Now, it’s time to start thinking about getting ready to leave for brunch in Rhode Island, which I am excited about, but am also dreading because at least one child has already been awake since 4am. Against all odds, the kids go out for a bike ride and then, albeit an hour late, we all shower and get ready. I even iron my pants.
We leave.
I am fidgety in the driver’s seat (I always drive because my husband can’t stand my back seat driving if I don’t).
I should turn around now, while we’re not too far from home.
We get gas.
Do it now. Before there’s no turning back.
We pull out and are about to turn onto the highway, when I turn to my husband.
“I am not entirely sure I unplugged the iron.”
I say this even though I am pretty sure I did, like 99.9 percent sure. But then there is that chance that I just thought I did. Shit. How can I enjoy waffles and cabernet when there is so much uncertainty?
“Should I go back? I have to go back.”
“Brilliant. That’s going to take 10 minutes. I want to see Grammy,” my son says from the backseat of our minivan.
Now I want to pull over and drop-kick my 7-year-old before I go home to check the iron.
Anyway, we make it back home and, of course, the iron is unplugged. But I feel so. much. better. The house most definitely will not burn down while we are away for the day. At least not from a plugged-in iron.
Off to R.I. we go.
The day goes off without a hitch. The kids are surprisingly well behaved. The food is great. And the company is welcome.
Then I tell my family about the deal with the iron that morning. My brother and husband laugh knowingly.
“I sometimes use you as an example in my psych class,” my brother, the high school teacher, says.
“Nice.”
He tells his class about how I used to check my alarm clock about 20 times before getting in bed. “AM-PM; AM-PM.” I’d say this over and over while pressing the button on my alarm clock to prove to myself that I had actually set it up so that it would go off at 6am rather that 6pm, as if I’d sleep for 20 hours straight through. My brother says his students were baffled to discover there were people out there who actually behaved like this.
High school students are idiots.
Then my husband chimes in about how before we were married and I used to stay at his apartment – shocking, I know – I would turn on the stereo to help lull me to sleep. I’d settle down into bed only to discover that I’d turned the music up just a little too loud. So I’d turn it down and settle back in. Too soft. Again. Too loud. Too soft…It could go on for many minutes. I never could get it just right.
“And you stayed,” my brother says to my husband.
Then I think about all the other things I used to do. Turning around and driving home to blow out candles I may or may not have lit. Or to make sure the oven was turned off. Checking light switches multiple times before leaving the house. And some others that just make me sound completely crazy.
I don’t do those things nearly as much as I used to. I just don’t have time with three little kids, I guess. Nowadays, I am just concerned with getting out of the house dressed and wearing matching shoes. Which I DID manage to do yesterday.
But at least my resurrected OCD made for good conversation.
