These pubescent humans that I share a home with ravage all
inventories of AA batteries, duct tape, scotch tape, electrical tape, scissors,
sharpies, nail clippers, pens, pencils, erasers, highlighters, screwdrivers, box cutters, razor blades, light bulbs,
rubber bands, safety pins, hammers, nails, and every other tool, device, instrument,
gadget, contrivance, and accessory used in life. They raid every drawer, shelf,
nook, cranny, closet, cabinet, container they can find leaving emptiness in
their fury, leaving emptiness for me when I need a lone AA battery, piece of
tape, Band-Aid, or a working pen.
Not only is this infuriating, it is
also completely and totally maddening. Do you know how much time I spend
looking for things? Things like Baking soda, toilet paper, q-tips, paper clips…
I often think I am on Candid Camera. (Wait, Candid Camera is old. I meant, Punk’d.
Yes. I often think I am on Punk’d.) There
have been times when I have actually stopped and searched for the hidden
camera. Like, how is it possible that the full box of corn starch is gone? I am
making white chicken chili and need a tablespoon, that’s it- just a tablespoon
of cornstarch, that is not too much to ask for, and it’s… gone. Just gone.
Vanished. No sign of it, not even a remnant, a small, spilled splotch. Nothing.
This has to be a joke. Enter the hidden camera. Instinctively, I abandon my
search for cornstarch and begin hunting around for the hidden camera- that I am
convinced exists- to no avail. Nope, not on Punk’d, instead just another day in
the life with the #sixbunch- a life that is spent in a constant quest for vanished
things. A quest that robs me of my time and leaves me empty handed.
See? Maddening.
(Evidently, cornstarch
is the key ingredient for making SLUDGE. Sludge is better than mud, so I am
told. Moreover, you can make your own, which apparently, makes it far superior
than mud- it’s on demand mud. Perfect.)
Since we are wallowing in this space
of ‘All Things Missing’, it is only appropriate to talk about its cousin, ‘All Things
Devastated’- The Pantry and The Frig. I am certain that what happens to my poor
unassuming pantry and frig is indisputably paranormal activity. I encounter
endless opened
bags of chips, packs of bagels, boxes of crackers, cereal, cans of nuts, and
loaves of bread... I discover crumbs in
the butter, chunks in the cream cheese, mustard in the mayo, soggy chips in the
salsa, spoons in the open jar of peanut butter, bites out of the block of
cheese, out of apples, and ice cream bars... I am left with empty jars of
pickles, olives, packages of deli meat, gallons of milk, bottles of juice, and
cans of soda... There are loose tortillas, rogue circles of pepperoni, and lone
hot dog buns... Anything & everything is opened, unsealed, unfastened,
undone, untied, unzipped, unbuttoned, loose, free, bare, unprotected, uncovered,
exposed and sticky, slimy, slippery, oohey, gooey, syrupy, gummy, messy, soggy,
crusty, stiff, and smelly. My Pantry and
My Frig are in perpetual and permanent states of disaster. I would drape the doors
in caution tape, if only I could find it.
My
life was fine, good, peaceful, pleasant, ENJOYABLE when my Type A tendencies were
free to frolic in perfectionism, fanatical organization, compulsive cleanliness,
and overachievement. All of a sudden, these delightful toddlers have turned
into thundering teens, leaving me painfully aware that my precisionist disposition
now has titanic sized Swiss cheese holes in it.
I am
left with a very small piece of sanity- The Box. A gift to myself, The Box is my tiny little piece of deliverance from The Fearless
Fourbunch who disrupted my life with their adolescence. MY Box is
completely stocked with all sorts of fabulous, assorted sundries that are ALL
mine and MINE alone. The Box is my modern day cloves stick. (Yes, the cloves
stick from Winging Parenthood.) Now, without shame, I sit back and relax when any
one of the boys is frantically searching for some superglue- superglue that one
of the four no doubt hastily depleted last week. “Mom!?! Ugghhh! Do you know
where any superglue is? I NEEEEEEEDD some.” This is my moment. I take a breath,
and exhale before speaking, exuding serenity from my voice, “Why no, son, I do
not have any earthly idea where any superglue may be.” My Superego screams and fist pumps me, radiating with pride.
Small in form, but oh so mighty in function
is my supreme box. Never again will I be void of tweezers. Safely hidden
behind decoy boxes of tampons, maxi pads, pink Daisy razors, and moisturizer,
The Box is my great liberator.
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