The Letter V

I'd like to think I'd have a lot more time on my hands if I weren't so neurotic sometimes.

Let me share what goes on inside my head for a moment...  Weston has an alphabet train that has 26 2-inch individual blocks that snap in and out of the train.  Every few weeks since he's gotten it for Christmas last year, I've taken to counting all the blocks just to make sure that they're all there.  On occasion, I've counted the blocks and come up with 25, but I've always been able to find #26, hidden in some compartment that Weston forgot about.  I do this same thing with his puzzles--always putting the pieces back together.  He has four sets of flashcards that I have yet to let co-mingle.  I always sort them out (they're grouped by theme) and put them back in their proper boxes.

Dumb, I know.  I think I do it because I'd like to be able to pass along all the amazing intact toys that we were so graciously given by friends and family to some parents-to-be down the road.  I hope that they will be intact.  No kid likes puzzles with pieces missing.

Turns out that a couple of weeks ago was the first time I counted 25 and haven't been able to find the letter V.  I'm obsessed!  I've looked in drawers, closets, all the usual places, and I've come up empty.  I was irritated.  Outsmarted by a toddler.

I often wonder where stuff like that goes--unmatched socks, a lone glove, one earring, a toddler's shoe, the AWOL cell phone charger, etc.  And yet, I've seen those things of other people on bike paths, in school lost-and-founds, public restroom counter tops, in my neighborhood, and I somehow can't fathom how in the world it got there.  Just a couple of months ago, Nate and I returned home from a meandering walk in our neighborhood on one of those nasty hot days (which I would enjoy right now as I sit here in a sweater and pajama pants), and realized that Weston was sporting only one sandal.

Crap.  We both looked at each other, hoping the other one would utter what we each wanted to say, which was, "Forget it.  Summer's almost over and he's got plenty of other shoes that will fit."

Instead, I said, "Do you want to go look for it, or should I?"  He cocked his head, silently asking Did you really just give me an out? and said, "I'll stay back with Weston."  So, out I went, retracing our steps in blazing heat.  Enjoying the second round of the walk, I kept my eyes toward the ground.  About halfway through, there it was.  The toddler's sandal.  Rescued from hours, days, or even weeks of strangers walking by and wondering, "What the hell is that shoe doing here?"

Right now, that letter V block could have been subjected to such humiliation (Who knows?  Did Weston smuggle it on a trip to Kroger, only to have it fall out of his hand on the way into the store?).  Or perhaps it's tucked away in some little corner of the house, patiently awaiting to be discovered when the kids are out of the house, and we're packing up to retire to something smaller.  At which point, I'll probably shed a tear or two, fondly remembering how cute it was when I would find Weston's toys in the funniest places.

Where did you hide the letter V??!??