Mine, Mine, All Mine! (Or the story of an anal-retentive family)

I remember all those eons ago when Atch and I were dating, he used to scold me for resting my bare feet on the dashboard of his car (“you’ll leave footprints!”). Heaven forbid I’d even lay my wide butt on its hood. When our marriage was new, I’d often catch him in mid-cringe whenever I popped cd’s into his beloved stereo. And the first time I cleaned his venetian blinds, he stood at my elbow issuing anxious directions, fearful I might bend them.

Obsessive-possessive, my Atch is. Particularly when it comes to what’s his. And in this respect, the boys take after their father.

Woog has just started along the road of the agonizingly difficult but ultimately rewarding sacrifice known as sharing. It took the longest time and the most adamant of urgings before we saw him hesitantly offering a plaything to his cousin Ia. Never mind it was one of his cast-offs. It was a good start. Now if only I can convince him to share his food.

Woog: My brother, mine! Mine!

Eli's not far away from the beaten path: this path of single-minded obesssion...este…devotion. This is one baby who will not be distracted from his plaything. Be it the thrice passed-down rattle he shakes furiously (inadvertently banging his nose and forehead) or a dog-eared flyer from the phone company he might have managed to snag in passing.

Attempt to pry it away from him and he’ll scream bloody murder. He'd have a death grip on the thing during mealtime, bathtime or bedtime, whichever time of the day it might happen to be. He refuses to be distracted, too. No matter how colorfully attractive said distraction is. Even if you wave it about his face. Nooo-ooo, not this boy.

The current object of fixation (as of one week, and counting) is a small green and yellow box the tube his xylitol teething gel came in. Could it be the reminder of blessed numbness the chilled gel gives his poor itchy-ouch gums, or even perhaps the fetching picture of a smiling girl-toddler in front, no one can say. He clutches tightly at his little box during diaper changes and at breakfast. And I have, in actual fact, seen it in dangling in his fat little fist as Yaya once lifted his sleeping form from stroller to crib. She tried to extract it from him, but the little guy held on steadfast and wouldn’t give, even uttered a little whimper of protest.

“Eli has a girlfriend….Eli has a girlfriend!” Woog chants in a teasing sing-song.

“…and her name is Xylogel-a!” Atch joins, second-voice.

Eli slices them a sharp sidelong glance that is eerily a twin of his father’s own. Still, he continues to clutch at that dilapidated box, occasionally crooning to it in low uni-syllables. Sometimes it finds its way into his mouth. Ah…the pride of ownership.

I shudder to think what these boys will be like when they reach the age of girlfriends. Will they make like superglue? Or will they be spraying their figurative pee to mark their territory? On second thought, perhaps it'll turn out to be the boys' dear old mother laying claim to “ownership” of her own when that time comes.

Will I be willing to let go? Time will tell. (and may it be a long time still, so help me...)