Name That Disease: A Test for Googlechondriacs

Like all good parents, my wife is fond of ‘Net searching on sets of symptoms (“runny nose AND crankiness“) to come up with a diagnosis (“Dengue fever“) that’s bizarrely far from the actual cause (“being a toddler“).

Call it Googlechondria.

Pathetic. Just pathetic.

What’s more pathetic than a slide you can’t slide on? Oh, right, the leggy and diseased non-native Azaleas.

So I have to set her to the task of naming my problem (OK, one of my problems), for which the symptoms are roughly:

I collect projects like stamps, then vastly overestimate my own aptitude to complete them.

Among my current plans is to build a climbing wall and slide for the backyard. The slide portion — which was, of course, pre-fab — is assembled but not attached to anything. Therefore, in order to use it, Boo must sit down in the slide so that I can lift it into the air for her! Lots of whee! fun but not sustainable.

Other items on my docket:

  • Make a Dorothy dress. (Note: sum of my sewing experience is making an apron in junior high school and four stitches in a sewing class.)
  • Scan and catalog thirty years of my wife’s snapshots before they crumble into dust.
  • Tear out the entire garden and replant with drought-resistant, native plants. Win award from garden magazine…

Getting the idea? The list goes on from there and gets even more self-indulgent (did I mention the mystery novel I’m writing?).

Until about two months ago, I didn’t mind having all these projects: a to-do list the size of Sonja Henie’s tutu makes me feel useful.

Then came the Blueberry, and my time for “projects” that aren’t directly connected with keeping a newborn alive, a toddler entertained, or a household from being buried in crusty Cheerios bowls and soiled singlets has shrunk to about two hours per week.

So not only do I have the disease (come up with a name yet, dear? “Hyper-hobbyitis?”), I have no cure except, of course, to just forget about any and all “projects” on my list for the next four or fourteen years.

Unless someone wants to come over and build me a climbing wall? Bring your own lumber?

Let me know when you get here. I’ll be down in the garage, trying to remember how to thread my sewing machine with one hand while tossing Boo a basketball with the other.