I am an overthinker, a worrier, a wringer of hands. If I shift from the energetic ADD adult whose mouth and brain often lack a filter, to a quiet, moderately grouchy, pondering soul, you know something is troubling me. In that condition, I best be left undisturbed. If the music from my headphones is especially loud, you know I am searching for some sort of homeostasis for my brain. I have several mantras that run on a loop in my mind when I recognize this inner trait emerging. “Control the controllable” is my most recent phrase. Others include: “Not my monkey, not my circus” and “Nobody’s gonna die!”.

The imagination of a child can be immeasurable in terms of creativity and energy level. According to my mom, mine was active to the point of exhaustion… in her, not me. It is a good thing that I was raised as an only child, so to speak. This was due to an age gap of 7 years between each of us three boys. Mom had to have been overwhelmed at times with me and my unlabeled ADD and hyperactivity. It took grade school roll call for me to learn that my real first name was actually Todd, not “you little bugger, stop that!”

I did something last weekend that made me channel thoughts of my mom. This was really not a shock because I think about her every day. But this was something different. It was something I used to hate doing and still do not relish because it makes my back hurt. It was a frequent item on my after-school or summer Saturday chore list. A groan of tedium would escape my lips whenever I lumbered into the house from school and saw that chore list with the three dreaded words: “Sweep the gutter.” Lovingly placed next to the list would be a bribe of either her famous lemon squares or graham crackers with peanut butter slathered between them. If you have never tasted her lemon squares, you haven’t lived. Being the most obedient and pleasant of the three Thomas boys, I was always a pushover for anything Mom asked me to do. Carrying an adolescent attitude on my face, I trudged outside to pick up the broom and get to work.

One of the most dependable and loyal businesses in the glory days of Preston was Carter Brothers Automotive. A family business run by three brothers, Lyle, Glen and Paul Carter. If my self-taught mechanic dad could not fix the problem himself, our vehicles and farm equipment went straight to Carter Brothers. Whenever I was home for college breaks, that is where I took my Camaro for oil changes or diagnostics on that annoying engine noise.

What was your favorite comic strip? Garfield and Peanuts were popular with me. One special memory is the one called the Family Circle. It often featured the youngest energetic boy of the family running all over the house or yard by tracing his steps with a dotted line. My snowbird Grandma Smith would clip these features from her newspaper in Arizona, and mail to my mom with a note that said, “This reminds me of Todd!” One of my favorites was Dennis the Menace as I thought it to be somewhat biographical. A caricature of me at the age of Dennis would bear a striking resemblance. Coupled with my hyperactive antics, and we come close to a match.

The 2025 Idaho Legislature has now adjourned. It was a mixed bag of results unlike any other session in my recent memory. Depending on your party membership or point of view, it was either wildly successful or a disaster. As always, there were bills I liked and disliked that passed and bills I liked that failed.

We all have things that get under our skin. The older I get, the thinner my epidermis becomes. When I feel irritated by these behaviors of others or temporal things, I try to remember one of my many self-talk mantras: “Control the controllable…let it go!”

I am of the age where the new-fangled smartphones, shopping apps, and inventions of brighter minds baffle me. I know I am not alone. My son often gets frustrated with me when I stumble with the Google search engine or maps on my phone. At work, I struggle daily with email settings or the 2-step authentication thing-a-ma-jig that the IT guys want me to use. Thank goodness for the barely post-adolescent therapists around me who rush to my side like the proverbial “knight in shining armor” to rescue me. I eventually accomplish what I am assigned, but not without some silent cuss words and consternation.