Monday, April 2, 2012

The Case of the Missing Shirt

The shirt is a dance uniform shirt. Needed for an upcoming performance. A dance performance. That my 10-year old daughter has with an entire dance team. Thus the necessity for a matching shirt. You know, to look like a team. And so they all wear the same shirt. A special ordered shirt. That we can't find.

It started with a text: we can't find it.

Find what? the shirt.

What shirt? the shirt i need for our performance on April 14th.

Oh shit.

And so I texted back to the 10-year old daughter whose shirt was missing: look in your room. everywhere. under everything, through everything, in everything.

Half hour later, a response: we still can't find it.

Not finding it is not acceptable.

Not finding it means not performing.

Not finding it means you think you feel like crap now? Wait until you have to fess up to your instructor, who you're pretty sure hates you and will certainly hate you when she finds out you lost your shirt.

Not finding it means you'd better wipe those tears and keep looking and keep looking and keep looking until you find it or you die, whichever comes first.

And so it was that I came home and announced that together we would enter the room that looks like a landfill but is actually meant to be a bedroom and find the sucker.

We started at noon.

And by start, I mean I stood in the doorway in utter disbelief, shaking my head and thinking we are never going to find anything in this mess.

"Okay, " I said, taking control of the situation. "The first thing I want you to do is take out all the garbage and anything that should be thrown away. You can start with this bag here --- " points to Justice bag, overflowing with hangers, trash, and shoeboxes from recent shopping spree ---- "but before you throw it out, go through it; take everything out bit by bit, you never know if it somehow fell in there."

The 10-year old sighed, rolled her eyes, slumped her shoulders, sighed again, while I resisted the urge to point out that it was not I who misplaced the uniform shirt, nor was it I who made this particular room this atrocious, nor was it I who wished to spend any amount of time whatsoever attempting to locate said missing uniform shirt in said atrocious looking room. Because being the grown-up means sometimes you have to shut your trap and not state the obvious. Something about fragile egos and self-esteem.

At 3 o'clock in the afternoon we stood back and observed our surroundings. Every dresser drawer had been pulled out and sifted through. Five bags of clothes were now in the basement waiting permanent storage containers. Shoes that no longer fit were tossed. Books put back on the shelves in order of author. Electronics rested in a specially marked area. Beds and dressers were pulled out, vacuumed behind then pushed back. Thorough cleaning was an understatement. Not one square inch of this room was untouched. We had slayed the beast... and the shirt was still no where to be found.

Oh, goody. I just can't wait to let them know we lost the uniform. As if my success as a parent isn't judged enough - from one woman in particular - and yes, you are the most fantastic mother on the planet who has the most perfect children ever and by golly, I just don't understand why my daughter is still in the lower level when yours has reached such amazing levels of skill and I guess my children and I should just accept the fact we are nothing more than the mat upon which your righteous family should wipe their precious feet. (I've often wondered what it would be like if I never made a mistake ever, but then, hello! What would I write about?)

Accepting defeat I headed to the kitchen. Perhaps a pan of brownies would make me feel better. The garbage was overflowing so I might as well throw it outside before I started the chocolate munchathon. On top of the heap -- that damn Justice bag. One look at it told me the kid never bothered to go through it.


I dropped everything in the garbage can and turned around to go back inside. I needed chocolate.

She never looked inside the bag.

I sighed.

Turned around.

Went back to the bag.

Pulled out the shoebox and dumped it back into the can.

Looked at the shoebox.

Pulled the shoebox back out.

Opened the shoebox.

And took the shirt out.

Did I mention we cleaned that room for three hours? THREE HOURS?!


Mary said...

Oy! Time to open a can of I-Told-You-So. Immature? Maybe. But you TOLD HER SO!

Getrealmommy said...

Yeah. Sadly, I could be that ten year old.... :(

Brenna said...

Nice intuition, deductive reasoning, whatever. I hope she was grateful. Bonus: you no longer have a superfund site in your home.

Becca said...

Our house has gotten the same treatment, but it was for a missing lovey. :(

Glad you found it! Did you hide it for just a few more minutes while you enjoyed your brownies with a side of smug?