When we were pregnant and found out we were having a boy, I knew there would be days when I was out numbered by testosterone. This evening I had one of those moments where the similarities between Michael and Grayson were eerie and shook me to my core.
For probably more than a year now, Gray has been putting up a fight whenever we tear up or recycle a box. It could be a large cardboard box that something was shipped in or a shoebox or even something as small as an empty granola bar box. If he catches one of us disposing of any box, he immediately freaks out and begs to keep it for his "project."
This results in us asking many follow up questions to try and learn more about the "project" and how the box fits into it, but the conversations rarely go anywhere and we usually proceed with getting rid of the box.
Tonight, we had a similar incident after bath time while Michael was trimming Gray's toenails. Michael had collected the trimmings on his knee and was getting up to throw them in the trash when they were done and Gray said, "You could keep those for a collection. They're like the boxes you never let me keep for my project."
After giving me the sideways glance, Michael asked, "What do you want to do with boxes for your project?"
"Put them in order," Gray said. (And this is the moment I freaked out inside and reaffirmed that my son has his father's OCD DNA of putting things in order, as well as the habit of collecting collections, many of which revolve around containers of some sort.)
We asked how many boxes were enough for his project and Gray told us 10. I'm not sure why that's the magic number, but from what limited info we've been able to gather about this project over the last year or so, all I can tell is that he wants to count the boxes. I don't think there's any other method to the madness.
Something tells me that if we were to fast forward twenty years to Gray living on his own, we may have a box hoarder on our hands.
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