Husband is the master of clutter.
In my life his clutter is a bit like the music one is subjected to while on hold waiting to talk to a representative of some random company or another, background noise that is highly annoying but on occasion you find yourself singing along with it because it rather rocks. Sometimes I want to sweep it all into a trash bag with one great swoop of my arm and fling it in the alley and at other times it gives me permission to clutter right along with him.
Carter seems to have received the clutter gene from Husband. His cluttering tends to consist more of a scattering of books than a concentrated pile of make-me-grumpy, but there is one exception. The end of our dining room table.
Because it looks nice and provides more room, we keep the leaf in our dining room table and always have three chairs on each side. We, of course, only use four of the chairs and have our designated spots; Cody and I are across from each other closest to the kitchen. Husband sits next to me with Carter across from him. The two empty places are next to Husband and Carter. Except they are never empty due to their respective clutter.
A couple days ago, fed up with Carter’s dining room table clutter, I told him he needed to tidy it up. He did and that section of the table, usually covered with books, cups, baseball cards, and trinkets was a beautifully empty. I was happy.
But apparently this newly uncovered space caused Carter some trouble. Last night during dinner he motioned to the table next to him where a couple items had already found there way and moved in.
“Without my clutter I don’t know where things start or end.” he lamented.
He went on to admit that during lunch the other day, he accidently sat in the wrong place, the beautifully empty space. Now this could be due to him almost always having his nose in a book and the subsequent lack of observational skills that comes with this, but it does hint at a possible unhealthy relationship with his clutter.