Late Night OCD

I don't know when it happened.

Some time between 2008 and 2012 Andy's OCD seeped into my pores and now we share it.

Four days ago, I begged and pleaded for mentioned moving the play room from the main floor to downstairs, where the guest bedroom is located.  The noise and chaos from having the kids upstairs in my grill was becoming rusty nails down a chalkboard to my person.  Something needed to change and I was the last one to volunteer.  Thirty-seven years of stubborn doesn't blend well over time so I nominated our furniture instead.

 

Andy and I stayed up hiking twin beds, queen mattresses, box springs, headboards, footboards, side tables, couches, and more toys than I care to discuss down hallway after hallway and into new dwellings well into the night.

 

 (Grayson's bed turned Abby bed.  It's now donning a new princess sheet and comforter instead of that funky mattress bling.  That hurricane lamp was my grandmother's and it's one of my favorite things on earth.)

We were both driven like marathoners on mile 25.  It was going to happen or else we'd drop in a sweaty heap of granola bars and water bottles trying.

(Guest bedroom turned Grayson's bed.  This was my grandfather's headboard and footboard.  It sits up so high he almost needs a ladder to get in.  Abby thinks this is fantastic.  Grayson is in there, can you see him?)

Finally we managed to call it a night with a real deal play room in lieu of a guest bedroom. Unless of course, our guests are three feet tall with a penchant for canopies.

It's only been a few days but I can feel the wallpaper in my mind smooth instead of crinkle.  The carnal sound waves driving into our ear canals have softened and become muted hymns of children playing.

Downstairs.

On another floor altogether.

Way far away but Leave It to Beaver close enough to mix lemonade and eavesdrop at the same time.

It's how sanity must sound.

Sweet Reward, how I've missed it so.