Living With A Hoarder

I live with a hoarder. I've said it before, I'll say it again. Bubba is a hoarder.

Let me just explain how bad of a hoarder he is.

Walking thru Target the other day, and I am -- of course -- looking at clothes. Bubba announces he wants me to buy this particular shirt. I questioned why. He responded, "Because then I could have this tag."

The tag.

He wanted the tag.

Welcome to my world. And speaking of my world, I thought I'd share with you our clubhouse in the backyard. Just give you a little glimpse into my world with an old-man-5-year-old.

Three pairs of shoes. And completed writings and drawings. Not sure why he needed 3 pairs...especially considering he also was wearing a pair.

Every 5 year old needs a desk. With a giraffe chair.

My Dad is an enabler. He built this shelf for Bub out of crap discarded lumber he found in his garage. I don't have to tell you how thrilled my child was about this. Just be thankful that you didn't receive a phone call telling you about the shelf. Pretty sure he called almost every contact on my cell.

All hoarding aside, it thrills me that 3 of the 7 books are Bibles and one is a devotional. (The red book on the bottom is a Ukrainian Bible. Yes, my child is a prodigy. Wink, wink.)

Bubba is scotch tape obsessed. Hence this photo. Just so you can see the tape. In the fort.

And so you can see the empty diaper box in the background. I've yet to recycle one that hadn't first been turned into a car. Or an airplane. Or an office. We're a bit box obsessed around here. Most of that fault lies with me.

A rubber band around a potting bowl, with a pencil sharpener, rocks, and hickory nuts. Odd, you say? Or genius.....

Just to show the depths of the hoarding, that is a piece of guttering. On top of a pot of rocks.

This next picture gives me hope. Hope of my precious Bubba outgrowing his hoarding. Hope that one day he will strive for minimalism the "less is more" mentality.

Yes, it's a trashcan. In the clubhouse. And it thrills me...a little. It would thrill me more...if he hadn't dug out an eraser he'd thrown away in a careless moment.

So what could be better than priceless pictures of a future hoarder we spend our life's savings putting thru therapy? Just be glad you don't live by me. Especially behind me.

At 5 a.m. this morning I awake to crashes of thunder and lightening spilling through my bedroom window. I snuggled deeper under the covers and began praying that Bruiser wasn't waking up while camping and scared of the storm. About 15 minutes later, as I'm just starting to drift back to sleep, my eyes pop open.

Bubba's books. On the shelf. In the clubhouse.

Rushing to the kitchen to go out that backdoor, in hopes of not waking anyone else, I race to the clubhouse. I climb the ladder -- in my nightgown -- my short, shorty nightgown -- and collect the books. Just as I hit the deck the bottom falls out.

But I made it. With no damage to the books. I returned to bed, wet hair and all, and eventually fell back asleep. Only to later relay the story to my clueless man.

But why is it that I feel when Bubba returns from camping, he won't be excited that I saved his books? But be upset that they were removed from his clubhouse.

Oh, Bubba. I sure do love you.