A Control Freak Perfectionist?

As soon as a woman finds out she is pregnant, she starts to imagine what her child will be like. She wonders, "Will he/she have my eyes? My husband's nose? My thick, dark hair? My husband's smile? My long, slender fingers?" She hopes that the child will inherit their good traits, and worries that they will inherit the bad.

I like to think that Dylan got some of his wonderful qualities from Jim and I. But, lately, there are a few traits that I'm noticing he has inherited that just make me feel bad for the poor kid.

My husband is a perfectionist. At work, as a graphic designer, and at home as a man who loves his tools, it often takes Jim a long time to complete a project. He is extremely concerned with the details, and he wants things to look perfect. It means that his finished products are amazing, but it also means he might drive himself (and someone else) crazy getting to that point.

I am obsessed with organization. I like everything to have a place. I have files for everything, I love labels, and I love to get rid of things I'm not using. I'm also a bit of a control freak. When I was a teenager, I told my mom I wanted to do my own laundry because she was "doing it wrong". (It is a testament to her remarkable amount of patience that she didn't slap me).

Poor Dylan was doomed. He is a mixture of the two of us, and it is both amusing, and scary. A few weeks ago, we took Dylan to Target, and we were walking past the area where everything is one dollar, when he stopped dead in his tracks. He ran over to the bins, obviously annoyed by something. The items were NOT in the right places. There were puzzles in with stickers, and stickers in with folders, and it HAD to be fixed before we could go any further.

Also, there are very specific ways that things should be done according to King Dylan. If we play with Mr. Potato Head, we must first separate the eyes, noses, mouths, etc., before we are permitted to proceed. When eating, if I try to give him a broken cracker - well, that is just insulting and will not fly.

Yesterday, as my mom was leaving, Dylan was dragging the bin with large blocks toward me, and my mom remarked on her way out, "Oh, you want to make a house, like you did with Mi-Mi?" Okay, I was pretty sure I could make a respectable house out of those blocks, but Dylan had his doubts. I messed up the very first block, apparently, because he was rolling on the floor screaming, "NO!!" "What?! That's not how you want it?" "No!! Like dis!", the King explained. After ten minutes of that, I was stressed out!

My kid is an enigma. He throws himself into things with passion and enthusiasm, but completely sweats the small stuff. Maybe the three of us can take a class on "Not sweating the small stuff"? I'll get my planner, Jim will make a checklist, Dylan will line up our shoes by the door, and we'll be ready to go.