I am....my mother.

So I spent last week visiting my mom. Well, it was more than a visit. It actually turned in to a whole home improvement/spring cleaning week. But it was all good. It's how I like to spend my days off work. Working. Yeah. That's it.

It actually was pretty good. It kept me distracted from other things. And I needed to be distracted.

But in the midst of all the cleaning/organizing goodness came a moment of horrible clarity for me. That moment that we swear will NEVER happen...that we will do things differently than our own parents, whether it be disciplining our children, how we drive or what career path we choose. Maybe even buying a different brand of peanut butter.

I was trying to get a TV in the spare room working with the satellite. It seemed that one of the grandchildren had unhooked it and it didn't get hooked back up correctly. I finally got the cables all hooked back up properly and got to a point where I needed to program the remote.

"Where is the satellite manual?"

"Well, I think it's in the living room in the Entertainment Center."

I dig. I empty the storage space in the entertainment center. The manual is nowhere to be found in the entertainment center. But there was a ziploc baggie with some bank statements and a few paid bills.

"Try again."

"Well, look in the drawer of the buffet."

I dig. I empty the 3 drawers of the buffet. The manual is nowhere to be found in the buffet. But there was a ziploc baggie with some bank statements and a few paid bills.

"Try again."

"Well, look in the pull-down thing of the hutch." (Yes...the "pull-down thing"....and I knew exactly where she meant)

I dig. I empty the pull-down thing of the hutch. The manual is nowhere to be found in the pull-down thing of the hutch. So I tried the two drawers in the hutch because I knew the "try again" progression would end there. No manual. But there was a bigger ziploc baggie with a few bank statements and a MANY previously paid bills.

That's when it hit me.

I have become my mother.

I have piles of mail all over my house. Little piles....one on the end table next to my recliner, one on my nightstand, a larger one on my desk and a BIG one on the floor inbetween my side of the bed and my nightstand. They are not in ziploc baggies, but you get the idea.

I begin with the best of intentions, just like I am sure my mother did. ORGANIZE THIS MESS. CONSOLIDATE THIS CRAP. And so I start by gathering ALL of the little piles, recycle most of it, shred what's confidential and.....and....find a permanent home where every piece of mail from that point forward will reside. But then Troy goes to get the mail and he sets it next to my recliner where I open it and then set it back down. But sometimes I go get the mail and I take it to my room and open it on my bed while I watch TV. Then I set it down on my nightstand.

And it just goes downhill from there.

My mom is actually pretty great. There are worse people I could become, afterall. I guess I should get some ziploc baggies.....