I spend my days listening to “Mommy, can you find this?” Sometimes that is the exact phrase. This. With my son looking at me like I should know exactly what he is talking about. Ten minutes later, after many answerless questions, I have a vague idea. Sometimes.
The house is a mess of small toy parts in every room, wishing they were part of Woody’s crew from Toy Story and had a buddy. They are all afraid of being lost in a black hole for all eternity and mourn the loss of their fallen friends each time we talk about why shiny take and play Thomas is still MIA. (Personally I suspect he got smart and ran away, lucky bastard).
So the house is a mess, the kid refuses to clean, and the parents are too wiped of energy to care most days. To find anything is a search and rescue mission. Cue the suspense music. It requires a flashlight, night vision, a stick (thank you cat toys) to get under the couch, a crying kid, and a bottle of vodka.
Let me rephrase. This is what is required to attempt to find anything. The crying kid, complete with stomping feet, is what happens when the parents wave the white flag.
I am plotting my revenge. My son is currently an only child. Which means he will be responsible for me, alone, when I am old and cranky. I can picture it now:
Old me: I need you to find something for me.
Adult son: on the Internet (or whatever high speed information gadget that will be surgically implanted by then)?
Old me: No… In my room.
Adult son: Mom, I am not there right now.
Adult me: Then get over here and help.
Twenty minutes or so later, when he finally arrives, I will send him on a wild goose chase around the house. For an item I know exactly where to find.
He’ll think I’m suffering from dementia. I’ll know better.
Or I will have memory problems, and he’ll find this and call my bluff. I better have another child. As backup. Just in case.