Klepto Kid

a natural place to store trains

On my way to work last week, I stopped for my usual coffee and when I went to pay, I opened my wallet and noticed that it was completely empty.  I figured I’d been robbed and knew exactly who the culprit was, my nearly-two year-old son, Charlie.  I smiled politely at the woman and awkwardly told her I’d be right back, thankfully I only live around the corner.  When I returned home, I entered the house and politely asked my son, “Where did you put all of mommy’s cards and money?” (I hoped that his answer would  not be: I flushed them down the toilet or I ate them).  He smiled coyly and vacated the room, his hands together, whistling, nonchalantly, and looking around for something new to get into.  My husband and I spent the next 10 minutes frantically tearing the family room apart and when we found nothing there, proceeded to do the same to the kitchen, bathroom and bedrooms.  It sounded like a chant, we were repeating in unison as we searched: Where’s the stuff from mommy’s wallet? Oh where oh where can it be? Hoping the sing-song, you’re-not-in-trouble-as-long-as-you-show-us-where-you-buried-the-treasure, game would entice Charlie to play along, or at least jog his memory.  Finally, the hero that he is, my husband found the missing cards and money inside an unpacked overnight bag, backpack really, from the previous weekend’s excursion to a bachelor party.  Inside the backpack, along with the cards and money, were a roll of toilet paper, our chopstick collection and an unpeeled naval orange (thankfully not punctured by the chopsticks, nor rotting).  And so I kissed my husband, gave my son a heart-not-in-it, gotta-hurry lecture and rough hair-tousle and headed back to pay for my coffee and be (only slightly) late for work.

Its funny really, how any organization, or attempt at it, goes out the window when your kids gets to a certain age.  Its ironic, that now, I can actually manage to label things, sort them and keep them orderly on my own (not like when I had the baby blues and couldn't think straight nor wanted to do any of that), but now that I want to alphabetize my spices and line up my books by genre and colour block the spines on my bookshelf, my son is like the tasmanian devil, whirling about the place and throwing things everywhere.  All cutlery is out of the drawer and in a variety of spots from toilet brush holder behind the toilet (yeah, probably don’t accept that invitation to my next dinner party) to inside the cold air return register grate.  All my tampons have been removed from their packages and are in a variety of handbags in the closet (highly sanitary I believe) as well as a welcome surprise inside my husband’s sock drawer.  Its not that I don’t watch him and supervise him.  Its that he’s lightening quick - especially if he’s undertaken a job he’s not supposed to be engaged in.  One minute he’s singing Twinkle Twinkle and reading in his room and the next he’s moved his crib to the other side of the room and has lined up every sock my husband and I own around the perimeter of the baseboards.  If only I could train him to enjoy putting things back, where they belong, and not in the most random and inconspicuous place known to man.