Self-fulfilling prophecies

An obnoxious habit I have retained from my days as a librarian is that I take notes while I talk to people on the phone. These days I don't write down names or numbers, time or date, because my phone has already done that for me. But I do write down any question that comes up, if it remains unanswered at the end of the conversation. It can be as basic as "Amtrack?" written on a random scrap of paper, or it can be an entire outline of questions, sub-questions, and other points to consider, neatly written in my current favorite spiral-bound notebook.

Strangely enough, I do get back to all of these questions. I never met a question I didn't want to answer. And as I mentioned earlier today, I'm a bit OCD about some things.

One of those things is paper. Any scrap of paper I see, I have to evaluate its value. I have to hold and examine it. My ultimate goal, though, is to be able to dispose of it because I'm done with it and I will never need it again.

Recently I've noticed that both my kids read these notes I write to myself. They also read my e-mail, but that's a topic for another post. When did I realize this?

A couple of weeks ago, I was walking Stick Girl to a birthday party that was--for once--close enough to walk to. Simian Boy was along on the stroll. We passed part of the golf course and a foursome was teeing off.

Stick Girl has spent some time watching the golfers, over at her friend Tori's, because their house is actually on the course and has a net over their yard. Apparently they enjoy purposely making the golfers laugh, by watching one of them tee off and then clapping for him. They think this is great fun, even if they don't know why it's funny.

And also apparently, they listen to what the golfers say.

So there we were, walking down the street, and a guy teed off.

"Big hit!" said Stick Girl.

"Yeah, big hitter, the Lama," said Simian Boy.

Time to start locking up my spiral-bound notebooks. Or is that the OCD talking?