Keeper of the Stuff

Some mothers claim that their title lies somewhere along the lines of "chauffeur" or "maid" or "cook."  While all of these may seem apt on one level or another, I courteously disagree.  My official title is "Keeper of the Stuff." 

It is a rare day in our little kingdom when I don't spend at least 20 minutes of my time hunting for some item that has made a mysterious disappearance.  Mind you, the closer it is to bed time, the more value this item has to the child in question.  Alas, in some instances, it is an item that I just can't argue with.  "Mom, where's my blanks?!"  Blanks being the blanket that my son absolutely will not sleep without.  That thing is tattered, stained beyond reason, truly well loved and still going to bed with my son four years after he received it.  Mind you, had we known at the time what great status this blanket was going to have in my son's life, we would have stocked up.  Unfortunately, we were too short sighted to make that call and now spend inordinate quantities of time hunting for aforesaid piece of material.  Once the item has been safely retrieved from the car, the back of the trike, under the couch cushions and once inside Jaba's bed (no, folks, you can't make this stuff up), I am able to finally tuck my son into bed.  Then ponder whether it is possible to attach a tracking device for next time.

The really mind boggling part about this title is that it's not just related to my child.  Some part of my brain can almost justify their dependence as they are too small to reach some of the shelves in the house, have a very short attention span and usually are not the ones reorganizing things within our home.  With the exception that my husband is almost a foot taller than I am, apparently all the above rules apply to him also. 

It is with frightening regularity that my husband asks me "where did the piece of paper go that was sitting on my night table?"  Friends, let me assure you, although I may be a little more organizationally conscientious (did you like that euphemism?) I rarely take it upon myself to reorganize his night table.  It's sort of like poking through my husband's drawers ... some space should just be his.  None of this, however, matters to my husband who is sure that I have moved the item in question with the sole goal in mind of making him search for it.  With a distinct lack of patience I holler back, "did you look on the night table?"  "Yeah, it was there.  Can't find it now."  Which means one of two things.  It has been moved by my husband, myself or one of our children.  Possible, but not usually the case.  The second option being that it is still there and has been buried under the mound of stuff that has accumulated on the furniture.  Usually, within two minutes of shifting the items around on the night table I am able to locate the desired piece of paper.  And don't ask me how I know which piece of paper it actually is; I am going to attribute it to some sixth sense that kicks in when you become a Mom.  All I do know is that every once in a while it would be nice if one member of my family actually made an effort to look instead of automatically bouncing the job to the Keeper of the Stuff.

My son is also infamous for this behavior.  "Mom, do you know where my truck is?"  "Which truck would that be?  You have about 20 of them."  "You know, the one with the really big tires."  While this does narrow the list down by about half, I'm still not sure to which one he is referring.  With increasing impatience he says, "you know, the one with the really big tires that looks like a monster truck!"  Obviously this is supposed to jog my memory, but I guess I forgot to catalogue that item.  Now he's really hopping mad at me and says "the one I got at the playground that time!"  Still with no clue what he's talking about, we go look in the pile of trucks which has been scattered throughout the living room, and find the missing item.  Don't ask me why he managed to overlook this particular treasure when he dumped them hither and yon, but it seems that only the Keeper of the Stuff could ascertain its true location.  Current crisis diverted, I go back to dealing with everyone else's stuff.

Presently, I find myself in the unenviable position of packing for five people to go on vacation.  There was a time in my life when I could leave on vacation for a week and take no more than a backpack.  True story.  Having just begun my task today, I already have two bags packed with snacks and baby food for the trip; one bag just for diapers, pull ups and swimmers; and now a fourth bag going with bathing attire and toiletries.  (Oh yeah, note to self, don't forget the floaties.)  Before taking off on this restful interlude I still need to gather together clothing for my entourage, outerwear in case of inclement weather, blow up mattresses, a pack and play for the baby, high chair and an untold number of blankets, stuffed animals and electronic paraphernalia.  Despite the lack of assistance from other members of the household, I hope to have us packed and out the door early on the morning of departure.  Somehow, though, I'm sure it won't be long before I hear "Mom, did you remember to pack my ..."  If it's missing, blame it on the Keeper of the Stuff.