An unfiltered fire hose of flaming condemnation

Don’t Even Get Me Started on Tornado Warnings

When I was a kid I was obsessed with making sure that all the lights in the house were turned off when they weren’t being used. I would follow my older brother and sister around the house turning off every light just as they turned them on, chastising them constantly, “Don’t you know what you’re doing?”

There were times when I had to make sure that the same light was off, six times in a span of ten minutes. I would think, maybe I made a mistake the last time I checked, maybe I didn’t turn it all the way off, maybe I need to go check again.

Actually, what I was really thinking was, my God, there is a limited amount of fossil fuel on the planet and my family is going to be personally responsible for depleting every ounce of it, and if I don’t go once more and check the light in the bathroom to make sure that, yes, the four previous times I checked I was right, it’s off, I’m going to be an accomplice, and we’re all going to die in the dark.

I suffered a similar obsession with making sure the water was turned off. My mother would force me to stay in my room when she was washing dishes, because if I was allowed anywhere near the kitchen, I’d turn the water off between each dish she washed.

It drove me crazy, sitting in my room hearing the gush of water escaping down the kitchen sink knowing that I was related to the person who was going to waste every drop of water in the world.

I don’t necessarily think I was a crazy kid, alone in my obsessive-compulsion. I think I can safely blame the public school system in Tennessee for every fear I had as a child, from having a barn animal land on me in a tornado to dying from just looking at poison ivy.

I seriously thought that not washing my hands was just about as dangerous as a Russian nuclear attack, and I figured that since I could really do something about the germs on my hands, the germs they warned us about in the film strip we saw every year, that I was really making a difference in the world. Gorbachev would know that I washed my hands all the time and would thus be reluctant to blow up my house.

Dare I ask — and I may very well regret this — what were you obsessive-compulsive about as a kid?

  • My obsessive issue as a small child? I have been so afraid of death since the age of 3 that to this day I can’t sleep on my back. If I just happen to wake up with my arms on my chest, I have panic attacks.

  • There was a while, as a kid, when I was obsessed with having all of my stuffed animals in bed with me at night. I was very concerned about any of them feeling slighted if I chose to snuggle up to only some of them. So, I’d line the bed with stuffed creatures, trapped in a fairly immobile position so as to give them all room, and of course I’d wake up in the morning with them all having been kicked off the bed.

  • I had this thing where if I wanted to stop eating, I’d not let my teeth see any of the food I wanted to stop eating. I figured if my teeth saw the food, then I’d stay hungry. And if the teeth didn’t see any food, then I wouldn’t want to eat.

  • you knockers should read ‘an invisible sign of my own’. also, welcome back heather. what a way to make my week, finding dooce back in action.

  • R3

    When I was about 6 years old, I was absolutely obsessed with the idea that there was a volcano building under our house (in Newport News, VA). I was just sure that one night we would all be blown sky high in an eruption.

  • Gina

    To this day, I have to step off of stairs with my left foot. Every set of stairs I take on a regular basis, I know what foot to start with in order to finish with my left. On my car CD player, the volume has to be on an odd number. I don’t listen to even numbered songs on CD’s…if I really want to hear them, I reburn the CD and either leave the even tracks blank, or just switch the order around so I have 2 different copies. I also always put my left shoe on first.

Heather B. Armstrong

Hi. I’m Heather B. Armstrong, and this used to be called mommy blogging. But then they started calling it Influencer Marketing: hashtag ad, hashtag sponsored, hashtag you know you want me to slap your product on my kid and exploit her for millions and millions of dollars. That’s how this shit works. Now? Well… sit back, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.

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