How my wallet acts like a teenager: It doesn’t like me. It hides from me. It ran away last week, and only through a miracle (and a good Samaritan) found its way back to me.
My family once again takes advantage of “Kids Eat Free” at our favorite Tex-Mex restaurant, Serrano’s. Lil Diva, exhausted from The Cough, protests greatly and spends the majority of the meal walking outside with my husband. I pay the bill.
Lil Diva is still sick which means no Zumba class for me. The Tackler is off at Mother’s Day Out and she is a whining, cranky fusspot. I grab the stroller and take her outside, for some reason bringing my wallet along. Instead of heading to the park, we stroll around the block, meeting up with our neighbor.
It is garbage day.
Soon, all the signs of “Mommy, I’m exhausted because I haven’t slept well or taken a nap in four days” are in evidence and we return home for an early nap.
I spend two hours with her sleeping in my lap because I am desperate to have her rest. Frequent angry hacking fits wake her up, but I am able to soothe her cries and lull her back to sleep.
I’m still at home with a sick child and my 4 year old. I’m beyond exhausted. I sleep late, almost miss my hair appointment, and can’t find my wallet. I grab the check book instead.
We watched Tangled for the umpteenth time this week.
The Lil Diva finally napped two hours with only one wake up.
I wish I could join her.
I sleep in again, still worn out from the previous week. I haul The Tackler to swim lessons where he does a fabulous job. I return and do some writing while Lil Diva naps and the Tackler plays with CG.
I need to go to the grocery store, and hunt for my wallet, certain it simply hid between the seats of one of our cars, or was placed in a random spot during the week’s delirium when I cleared all counters for my cleaning ladies.
I search my office. Nothing.
I search my van. Nothing.
I search the kitchen. Nothing.
I search the bedroom. Nothing.
I search pant pockets. Nothing.
I open the front door to search my husband’s car. This note falls from the door frame:
What the frak?
“Honey, I can stop searching for my wallet now. I know where it is. Sort of.”
I call the number, and sure enough, “Israel” (I think that was his name, he was hard to understand), has my wallet.
He works for the garbage company and found it lying in the street.
I figure out where he lives and we arrange to meet in a hour at a grocery store near his home.
I take The Tackler with me, as CG’s patience fled with his son’s continued Attacks on Sister paired with simultaneously refusing to listen.
The Tackler becomes An Angel, and behaves perfectly for me. He’s good in the car, rides in the cart, stays by me when out of the cart, and I reward him by browsing in the toy aisle, as Israel is about thirty minutes late.
He eventually shows up as I explain what aisle I’m in (all non perishable groceries are in my cart waiting for the wallet to show up). Everything appears to still be in place, and I thank him profusely.
The Tackler remains angelic as we check out, my relief at having my wallet back hard to contain.
I fly in a few weeks and need photo ID – Texas takes weeks to get you a replacement.
I’m sure he doesn’t read my blog, but I want to say thank you again, Israel – and to anyone else who has ever gone out of their way to return a purse or wallet to someone.
You saved me from having an even bigger “what the frak” moment.
The irony? The drama could have been completely avoided. I had to have been at home when he left the note, but my doorbell is broken. If you don’t knock loud, I won’t hear you over my children.
My daughter ripped off the note formerly attached to the doorbell explaining this.
Do you have “what the frak” story of losing or finding your or someone else’s wallet/purse/phone?