When I pat my baby to sleep I count “One-one thousand, two-one thousand” and pat on the beat. It usually takes until 200 before I can put him down. I find myself counting random things now. The swish of the spin cycle, passes of the printer, steps.

I pace when I talk on the phone. It’s like a phone call is the perfect time to act busy, as if the caller needs to hear how active your day really is, picking up things, straightening, telling the children to be quiet, or making a snack.

I always have to put things into categories. Especially money. I will hide money from myself in separate envelopes designated for separate funds.

The toilet paper has to unroll a certain way. Towels have to be folded so they can hang on the bar. I hate how fitted sheets don’t fold right. And even with these pet peeves, my house is still messy. I hate being cluttered, unorganized.

I still prefer to write on paper. Even though I enter ficlets here, I don’t feel I’ve really been writing unless it’s on paper.