My talent for losing things is coupled with an inability to locate those misplaced items.

I mainly lose keys, wallets, glasses, and important letters that must be mailed today! Since I’m the kind of person whose heart starts thumping at the threat of potential tardiness, missing car keys and wallets tend to result in an anxious, but unproductive, searching frenzy that makes my entire family miserable.

For the past five years, I’ve held onto the belief that this is all due to hormonal changes from pregnancy and too much multi-tasking. It isn’t anything that intensive yoga and a few more years won’t correct naturally.  

In the meantime, “locating missing items” is at the top of my husband’s list of responsibilities. Once (OK, maybe twice), I searched the entire house for my car keys, throwing sofa cushions across the room, emptying wastebaskets, buckets of bath toys, and even frisking my own children.  

That night, my husband went straight to my purse.

“Obviously, I’ve looked in there,” I snapped. “I’m not a complete idiot!”

Calmly, he reached into the side pocket and removed my keys.

“Oh,” I said.

After that, when I called my husband at work, he’d answer by saying, “What did you lose?” or simply, “Inside pocket of your jacket in the closet.”

Even though his almost paranormal ability to find things is essential to my sanity, it is still completely irritating. After all, it feels a tiny bit condescending when I’m digging through the closets surrounded by jackets, shoes and assorted athletic gear looking for swimming goggles and my husband pulls them out of a swim bag.

Couldn’t he at least pretend to be surprised?

Last night, I gathered together the necessities before leaving for The Writing Mamas Salon. “Honey, where are my licorice mints?” I asked my husband.

“Bedroom. Top of the bookshelf,” he responded from the kitchen.

Right. Of course.

In the car, I rummaged through my purse looking for my glasses.

“Bye, Mom!” my four-year-old son, Kai, called from the deck.

I rolled down the window. “Can you ask Daddy if he knows where my glasses are?” I asked.

“Up high, in the place for glasses,” Kai told me as if I’d just asked him the location of my car.

I glanced at the sunglass holder above the rear-view mirror and then back at my son.

Tentatively, I opened the holder and my glasses fell into my hand. No way.

“Thanks,” I whispered looking up at Kai with new respect.

He shrugged. “I’m just a good finder.”

Maybe it is time to stop making excuses and admit that I am just… not.

By Maya Creedman

Labels: forgetful, husband, Maya Creedman

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