I just spent the past two days looking for my car keys. 2 DAYS. 48 HOURS. Barring slumber, school drop-off, and a few mommy-related tasks, I have done nothing but search my house up and down for my damn keys.
I had a sinking suspicion it was Wita’s fault from the start. Since the day she started army crawling across our floor, that girl has gotten into everything. Birthing a Godzilla was a new thing for us, as Wito was super tentative around the house as a toddler. I recall friends with small children recoiling in terror the minute they walked into our meticulously decorated living room, with all sorts of gleaming objects just waiting to be shattered into bits. “How do you LIVE like this with your toddler? You must be insane!” Yet our son was way more interested in his toys than our home accessories. (Oh, I now realize our good fortune, TRUST ME.)
Wita? Not so much. When she’s not knocking books off shelves or throwing objects down the stairwell, she’s picking up objects with the sole purpose of transporting them to places most humans don’t frequent.
After conducting our half-ass, preliminary key search (you know, before things get all DEFCON THIS IS NOT FUNNY WHERE ARE MY KEEEEEYS), we surmised that we needed to search through the eyes of a 1-year-old. Thus began my exhaustive search of toy baskets, closet corners, couch cushions, potted plants, and the like. All day, people. ALL DAY. I eventually became so pathetic and desperate, I was combing through the refrigerator and recycling bin.
Guess where I finally found them?
In my coat pocket. I mean, surely searching the produce drawer of my refrigerator was the smart choice, NOT THE INSANELY OBVIOUS COAT POCKET.
(By the way, I did check my coat pocket 25 times. It just happened to be the pocket of the coat I didn’t wear on the day I lost my keys. Someone shoot me.)
Dear Wita, I’m sorry. Love, Your Stupid Mother