ADD central.

I’m the first to admit that I suffer from ADD (Attention Deficit Disorder). This is self-diagnosed, of course, but I’m sure if there was a checklist somewhere of the top 10 signs, I’d have about 9 of ‘em. Probably all 10, but I’d already be on to the next thing before finishing the checklist.

What makes this tale of woe even more unfortunate is that my dear husband, the father of my child, suffers from the same affliction. On a much greater scale, I might add. Methinks our poor child is doomed. I’m already preparing myself for the numerous progress reports we’re going to receive, “Anna is such a joy in class, but she has a problem focusing on the task at hand.” I could warm the entire Saints football team with the fire generated from burning all of my progress reports that carried that very same message.

So, my husband is off of work today. He was also off of work yesterday, but since he had daddy duty, that gave him the right (per his words) to sit on the couch all day long and only do daddy stuff like feed Anna and change a diaper or two. Asking him to lift a finger to, say, take out the trash, would be far too much to ask on such an important day.

Since I’m fortunate enough to be able to work from home a few days each week, oh, and be a mom at the same time, I asked him if he could clean the garage today. The more I watch the show Hoarders, the more I realize our garage isn’t too far off from that type of despicable mess. When you only open the door halfway to bring in the garbage can so as to not frighten off the neighbors, that should be clue #1 that it’s time for some early Spring Cleaning, right? When you step on a picture frame and fall into a pile of Halloween decorations that still haven’t been put away in the attic, that should be clue #2. There are hundreds of other clues, but my ADD keeps me from typing them all out.

Joe goes out into the garage totally motivated to organize and clean out this den of darkness. I hear things moving around, I think progress is being made, and then five minutes later – yes, FIVE minutes – he comes inside. Bathroom break? Does he need a drink? A shot of Scotch? 10 more minutes go by, and Joe is still in the house. What is he doing?

I get up from my chair and go check it out. He could be choking, for Pete’s sake. I quietly walk into our bedroom not sure what to expect. What do I see? Joe. In his closet. Cleaning it. Here’s the conversation that follows:

Me: What are you doing?
Joe: Cleaning my closet.
Me: I thought you were cleaning the garage?
Joe: Yes, I was, but I got cold. So, I came inside for a shirt, and now I'm cleaning my closet.
Me: :blank expression:
Joe: I couldn't find the shirt I wanted, so now I'm cleaning my closet to find it.
Me: :blank expression:

He’s been in the closet now for about 20 minutes. I’m taking bets from all of you to see if you think Joe is going to complete this task before moving on to the next thing.

Before I could finish this post, Joe quit cleaning the closet and started playing basketball in the house with Anna. So, I rest my case. My husband has extreme ADD and probably needs some pills.

And since I also have ADD, I'm bored with this post and am going to do something else now. Later!