2.5 years

is how long it took me to find my checkbook.  A few mere months after my daughter was born, I can fuzzily remember reaching for my checkbook and not being able to find it.  I scoured the desk drawers, looked behind the computer table, and peeked under dressers.  Nope, nowhere to be found.  Dutifully, I called the bank, closed the account, and began the laborious task of rerouting bills.

I blamed it on my son.

Tonight I got a wild hair to do some organizing.  I pulled open a drawer with seemed to house such needed books as “Easy German Word Games & Puzzles” and my seminal work on disasters.  Seriously, a paper from the sixth grade titled, “Famous Disasters of the 1940s” which seems to examine in distressing detail hotel and night club fires only to reach the stunning conclusion: “If all of America would take fire more seriously, I wouldn’t have to write a report on disasters because there wouldn’t be any.”  Very useful.

Happily sitting on top of this report, however, was my merry little checkbook, just smiling up at me from its sedate navy blue cover.  Two and half years later it deigns to turn up.

I’m still blaming it, however, on my son.

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