An Incident

“Mom — My wallet’s not in my pocket! It’s these pants you bought. Look! The pockets are shallow and slippery,” he said.

We had been wandering around the store for about half an hour, just to get out of the house.

Of course the pockets are slippery. They’re athletic pants. No buttons or zipper for the one arm wonder. I made three trips to get those pants in the right size!

He proved to me yesterday that he was still able to manage his jeans and belt. He put on the new athletic pants today, to appease me.

Why is it always the mother’s fault?
Why does she always think I’m careless?

First, we checked out our few items and went to investigate the truck. Nope. Not there.

Back into the store. Steps re-traced. Inquiry made at the service counter. Nope. Not found.

Back to the truck we went. There was a ten minute drive home with restrained growling and attempts to be understanding. Look at the positive. No credit cards! Everything can be replaced.

I tried the old breathe more — worry less technique. I told him to give it a go. Shot down! He’s not there with me, yet. I’ll have to keep planting the seed for that one.

So, guess what?

The wallet was in the chair, where together we struggled to get his socks and shoes on. Sitting right there on the cushion.

I’m left wondering why we both felt so agitated by this simple, almost inconsequential incident.

Could it be because words like blame and fault were being attached?


Or, maybe we’ve just spent too much time together. Fingers crossed for school tomorrow.