If you know absolutely anything about me, I'm completely anal about my literature, most importantly, my books. I don't even like my books to have creases, so you can only imagine how hard of a time I gave my husband when he lent out a couple books one time and they came back stained. Actually, I wasn't too terrible, I just had to take some deep breaths and remind myself they're really just paper. It's not as easy as it sounds though.
I'm one of those people who can't stand the idea of folding down a page's corner in order to hold the place or stick an object inside (like a marker) which could morph the shape of the book. I think you're getting the idea of just how particular I can be. It's one of my final OCD-like tendencies. So many of my others have been stolen from me and I had to let go, otherwise I was going to go insane in this whole adventure in motherhood.
Well, Bailey's been on this art movement lately, which maybe I'll eventually write about (it's on the list, the rather long list) and she brought me something fantastic. The only problem: it was inside one of my books! I was at a war with myself as I simultaneously applauded her artwork and then scolded her and gently reminded her we do not ever ever write in books. She told me one of her friends writes in his books, but I explained rather nicely that we however, do not.
Ever ever.
Even I have to admit, she chose the most appropriate book for the autograph. If only I'd known when I read it all those four years ago what was to come and just how mad fun it all would be.
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