hello, my name is Tahirih and I'm an addict

I have been an addict for two and a half years.
I used to find release in it, a way to feel more connected to the world.  I found that there were others like me. we could joke about our "addiction." I can quit anytime I want.  It's like an off switch, just flip it and I'm done. Right?  I just don't want to be done yet. 
I enjoy it.
If I'm having a bad day, I can just sit down and unwind for a while.  If the kids are screaming, I have an excuse to ignore them for a bit. 
Until that little bit became more and more.
It started infringing upon my daily activities. chores. cooking. cleaning. You know, all those things that are part of maintaining a household. 
Now I do it even when my husband is around.  My 3 year old has started commenting on my habit.
I feel bad. I know I should stop.  Just walk away.  But.  But.  Just one more? 
Just one more.
Until that one becomes two. three. four.
Each day I can find a new reason to keep coming back.  I know that time is slipping through my fingers.  Sliding faster and faster. Each grain of sand a moment.  Wasted?  But nonetheless one I cannot get back. 
I contemplate it each morning, afternoon and evening.  Is this what I should be doing right now?
But I am attracted to it, like a moth to a flame.  I look for that comforting glow, that soothing click. click.
click.
click.
clickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclickclick
click.
All I have to do is find that little red 'X'. That's all.
But my fingers look for one more thing.  That's all.  Just one more.

I will do better tomorrow.  That is all I can tell myself. 



Hi.  My name is Tahirih, and I'm addicted to the internet.

the irony of baby proofing

I decided to baby proof my kitchen today.  This is a tricky endeavor for a several reasons.  One, I am more than likely to forget that I've done it, yank a door open and inevitably break a fingernail. And, knowing me, it will happen more than once.  Two, I live with two adult males who can barely manage to get dishes put away as it is, let alone with any further obstacles.  We have solid oak cabinets-- not so friendly to the cheap little screws that come with the cabinet latches.  And, furthermore, I have decided to attempt this endeavor while both kids are awake and no other adults are present. *Disclaimer- do not try this at home*

So it begins....

Door number one: Glass bakeware and plastic baggies. 
I get the kit open, find my ratcheting screwdriver, glance at the instructions.  Okay Ms. Fix-it, here we go!  I reach for a matching hook and clasp and peel the adhesive strips from their backing, then from my finger, then from my other finger, then... it's time to peel the second side, but I miss the wax paper and peel the whole strip off. Then repeat. And repeat. I get the pieces aligned and right side up, reach for a screw.  They are preserved better than the original Declaration of Independence in their hermetically sealed baggie.  I grasp the sides.... pulling.... stretching....  almost.. there..  POP!  The bag erupts as forcefully as a host body in a Sigorney Weaver film sending tiny, sharp, little screws bouncing and rolling around my kitchen.  My kids dive for them as though a parade float has just rolled by.  (Did I mention this package is big enough to proof every cabinet in the house with four screws apiece?)  I'm on the floor.  Scrambling, grunting, reaching, grabbing, knocking children over like a fat kid under the pinata...

Door number two: Trash and cleansers. This time I'm on top of things.  I have four screws neatly aligned, complete mastery of sticky adhesive squares, hammer for starting screws aside one small nail, handy-dandy ratcheting screw driver, and I'm off!  "MOM!!!  I'M STUCK!!!"  I look up to see my three year old with one of my belts around his naked waist and its tail looped, tucked and knotted to the cupboard below the fish tank. He's yanking and flailing and the fish are preparing for a tsunami as I rush over.  Untying him, taking enough time only to shake my head and smile; I no longer bother asking what, why, or how.  Determined to get through this project I head back to the kitchen where my toddler has suddenly become interested in carpentry.  We wrestle over the hammer and I shoo him away. Screeching like a toddler scorned, he finds the lazy susan.  It's too late to intervene now. I've got the screws in, I'm working muscles I didn't know I have forcing this screw into loudly protesting cabinetry. Zinging past my head, out come the noodles, out comes the flour, baking powder and cheese sauce.  Out comes the cocoa mix, and, like a shark smelling blood, Lakai appears. "Don't open that, please, sweetie," I say, my sugary sweet words falling on voluntarily deaf ears, no match for the promise of a chocolatey treat.  "Please don't open tha--"  Ttttthhhhhwak, the seal breaks.  I'm turning the screw fervently, but not fast enough.  "Look, mom! I dipped my fingers.  It tateses good.  You want some?" 

Door number three: Tupperware. (Not that this drawer contains anything dangerous or breakable, I'm just tired of picking dog hair out of my leftovers.) This is actually a drawer, posing new angles and new obstacles. I pull the drawer completely out and place it on the floor next to me.  I turn my head to the side, tongue pointing deliberately from the corner of my mouth, like a curious puppy.  I size up the angles, and begin. Again, my progress is brought to a screeching halt as the two brothers begin rolling, pushing, pinching, screaming.  "Are you really fighting over an empty cup?" So I referee, tuck in my whistle and head back to the kitchen, Jevan following, leaving his glowering brother safely behind.  He spots the loose drawer and immediately recognizes his favorite playthings.  I'm balancing a screw on the tip of the driver, ineptly attempting to complete my task.  Jevan the opportunist climbs into the drawer, and one by one uproots the containers once neatly stacked by shape and size, tossing them jubilantly watching how far they roll and bounce around our workspace, marveling at how much dog hair they amass on a freshly swept floor.  I sigh and look up to a proud, toothy grin.  I go to check on a crash from another room and return as my husband walks in the door.  Looking concerned he asks, "What happened here?" "Baby-proofing," I reply simply.  He laughs.  "No, I'm serious..."