The Land of the lost... things.

Lately, things around our house have gone missing. Little boys are often blamed, little girls a little bit too. Secretly, though, I fear for my head. Maybe I'm losing my mind?

The other day the ball for my trackball mouse disappeared. I looked all over the house and couldn't find it. So I CLEANED the house. Sparkling clean. Still didn't find the thing. I gave up, tried stealing the trackball from the husband's mouse. It worked as a temporary solution, but he figured it out and demanded it back. I gave it back, don't worry. It didn't have anything to do with the fact that we have different models with different sizes either. Have you ever tried to use a smaller trackball than the mouse takes? It doesn't work very well.

A few days ago, I was at a certain coffee place, trying to get my daily fix of several shots of espresso and couldn't find my debit card. It was found on the floor under the box we set our shoes in by the door. Someone (a one year old girl) had removed it from my wallet and in the clean-up haste, it must have been pushed under.

The iPod that plays lullabies every night and nap time for Butterball disappeared. (It reappeared in a random box of kids books).

Quite often, the remote control goes missing. Quite often it is found in odd places. Like in Butterball's dresser drawers, Little Monster's dresser drawers, the kitchen drawer that houses our baggies, and occasionally the one that holds the oven mitts. Once we found it in the trash can.

Often I'll find her sippy cups and snack traps in odd places. I've purchased many thinking they'd been left in stores or at the park, only to find them among my jeans, under the bathroom sink or in the kitchen drawers.

This morning was the final blow. The kids were playing quietly - -which in hindsight should have been a big clue that something was going on. I found them, and they were being good. However, I noticed that Butterball's little doll stroller was missing the fabric seat. It was now just a dangerous frame of metal rods daring to poke someones eye out.

After searching and searching last week for the trackball, to no avail, I couldn't take it. Little Monster had been the one to remove the seat, and since Butterball has yet to master the art of the English language (outside of Mama, Dada, Up and All-Done), he was responsible for its disappearance.

We tore the house apart. Looked under and in couches, emptied trash cans, dirty laundry bins, dresser drawers, backpacks, diaper pails, file cabinet drawers, coat pockets, closets, and multiple kitchen drawers. We looked in places the children could not have possibly put the thing. And then we looked in all of the places again. And then I dug through the diaper pail. And the outdoor trash can. You know, in case my ONE YEAR OLD managed to escape the house, grow three feet, deposit the fabric, and then come back into the house and return to normal size all without my knowledge. I dug through the diaper pail people. The diaper pail that is full of stinky, nasty, diapers. We did not find the fabric. We did, however, find the trackball for my mouse. In the hat box I keep to put the kids sunhats in near the front door. Where I had looked. At least thirty times last week.

We gave up on the search for the stupid fabric. Which was fine. Little Monster had only been told he'd not be getting his favorite McQueen and The King trailers and cars returned to him until we found it. And at one point the loss of all food until it was found may or may not have been threatened. We left. And got soaking wet since it decided to downpour during the fifteen minutes we were out of the house today.

And when we returned, I was putting my sunglasses on our bookshelf by the door, and happened to look down. Into a 5 inch gun shell that we have. Inside the shell was the fabric for the stroller.

I am pretty sure that we are losing our minds. But it isn't our fault. It isn't our age. It is definitely the fault of two people. One I affectionately call Monster. The other, often goes by Monkey. They think it is great fun to move things to funny places and then watch us go crazy trying to find them. They test us by doing the exact thing we tell them not to right in front of us -- while watching our reaction. They steal things they know they aren't supposed to have. When they are caught they run the other way as fast as their little legs can scramble, shrieking with maniacal laughter.

There is a reason why as children, we think our parents are uptight, unreasonable, unfair and quite often completely insane. It's because they were. And it was our fault. We did it to them. It also explains how they magically regain their sanity after we leave their house.

Parents, I'm sorry. Children, you're going to be too someday.