“Mom, where’s my charger?”
I don’t know.
That answer seems to upset people.
Like I’m being difficult on purpose.
Like there is a large control room somewhere in my brain with little screens showing the current location of every object we own.
Wallet.
Shoes.
Tape.
AirPods.
That one hoodie.
The scissors nobody is supposed to touch but everybody touches.
And yes, the irritating part is that sometimes I actually do know where the thing is.
I know the thermometer is in the bathroom closet behind the ugly towels.
I know there are batteries in the junk drawer under approximately forty dead pens.
I know somebody left the scissors near the printer.
Why do I know that?
No idea.
I don’t remember what I walked into the bedroom for twelve minutes ago, but apparently I can maintain inventory for four other human beings.
My favorite is when somebody asks where something is while standing directly in front of it.
“Where’s the ketchup?”
In the refrigerator.
“I don’t see it.”
Move the milk.
And then they move the milk and there it is.
A miracle.
Sometimes I want to start charging a locating fee.
Five bucks if the item is in the room you’re standing in.
Ten if I already told you where it was.
Twenty if you say, “I looked everywhere.”
Because no you did not.
You looked at one flat surface and experienced disappointment.
I love my family.
Deeply.
But I am begging everyone to develop object permanence.