My oldest son, Ted, stopped by the house yesterday afternoon.  Wayne had set a heavy box by the basement door, and Ted offered to take it downstairs for him.  I noticed he was gone a good ten minutes.
 
When he returned he came to me and said, “Mom, we need to talk.”
 
He was so serious I was immediately concerned.  “What’s the problem?”
 
“It’s your yarn, Mom.”
 
“My yarn?”
 
“You have a lot of yarn down there.”
 
“Yes, well . . . it is my yarn room.”  Okay, I’ll admit, some of the yarn has bled out into other areas of the furnished basement.  I’ve been sorting colors , and there are a few books here and there and more than one pattern scattered about.  It has been on myTo-Do List to get down there and clean everything out, but I’ve been so busy with other things.
 
“I think we need to do an intervention.”
 
“An intervention?” I cried.  Now really, that was carrying it a tad too far.
 
“Mom,” Ted said, still serious.  “You need a twelve-step group.”
  
Can’t you see it now? Me, at a large meeting, standing up and admitting to everyone present, “Hello, my name is Debbie, and I buy yarn.”