Parenting | Humor
Mate, I Did Not Absentmindedly Lose Your Fleece
“Where’s the fleece from my bed?” my son asks on a Saturday morning as I empty the laundry basket, organizing the clothes into neat, colour-coded heaps on the floor.
“ The black one, you mean?”
He looks at me like I escaped from the psychiatric ward.
“I only have a black one. Duh,” he reminds me because I am clearly an idiot.
He doesn’t wait for a reply and marches toward my orderly piles for closer inspection. The assessment is only visual at first, but then he starts picking up the clothes one by one.
“That’s my jogger,” he says but twirls it just to check before releasing it on the floor.
“Jumper…don’t need that…
A sock…
My T-shirt…”
He calls them out one by one while discarding the unsuitable candidates.
“T’heck, are you from the laundry police?” I ask while admiring the new multicoloured cluster he just created.
“As a matter of fact, I am,” he says “Now, should I investigate the mysterious disappearance of my property?”
That’s very articulate. Smart ass.
“Your property? You mean the one I paid for?”
“Yep,” he agrees. “And the one you must’ve absentmindedly lost.”
Does the kid speak from experience? Mate, I did not lose your fleece.
He stomps out of the room and barges into mine. I can hear him pulling out drawers and slamming them shut.
As if I’d hide his clothes amongst my knickers.
“Try the airer,” I suggest supportively. No clue where the thing’s gone, but I’m happy to appear helpful in finding it.
“What kind of word is airer anyway?” he shouts from the room next door, opening then shutting my wardrobe.
Are we dwelling on the semantics? Yes, we are. I go along with it.
“The word airer originates from the word ‘air’ derived from Latin,” I shout, unnecessarily.
He’s standing at the door contemplating whether to call the psych ward.
“‘Airer’ refers to a device where you can hang your clothes to dry,” I simplify.
“It’s located in our bathroom. Now go and check.”
He does while mumbling something about me using stupid words. And why don’t I just call the thing a clotheshorse?
His search yields no results as he comes back.
“Mum, where did you put it? IT. WAS. ON. MY. BED.” he talks to me slowly, articulating every word like he’s talking to a small child who has difficulty paying attention.
The thing is, I do have difficulty paying attention… because I’m busy removing tissues from pockets.
Tissues, popcorn, a screw, chewing gum, coins, a paper cutter. A paper cutter? And things that can no longer be identified.
But I do know one thing. I DID NOT SEE HIS DAMN FLEECE ON THE BED.
So, I lead him to the clean laundry basket and point at the stack of clothes.
The ones I haven’t sorted since King Charles was crowned.
“Try in there,” I nod toward the mass. And I stay so I can answer pointless questions — which sure as hell are coming my way.
“Why do you wash my clothes all the time?”
The first question of the many that will not help to find his fleece.
“Because you’re lacking a built-in, self-cleaning device,” I blurt out, slightly frustrated, but kneel on the floor to help him look.
Twelve pairs of odd socks, a dried moth, and a moisturizer lid later, we give up on the laundry basket, and I leave the child to clean up the mess.
Including the fossil.
I make my way toward the bathroom and put the lid on my face cream, trying not to think of the two hours I wasted looking for it last week.
As I turn to check the drier, I see what my son failed to notice.
A lonely garment, accompanied by three socks and a thigh.
Clearly visible to the naked eye.
The flipping BLACK FLEECE is hanging on the rack.
He must hear my sudden gasp because he pops his head in the bathroom.
“Sweetheart, but it was here all along,” I say, thinking he might need an eye check.
But a shoulder shrug is all I get.
“Oh,” he says, somewhat surprised. “It wasn’t there before.”
We lock eyes for a moment, mild tension fills the air.
Not for long, though, as his mouth opens, ready to speak.
“Mum, have you seen my jeans?” eyes scanning the drier behind me while my heart pumps a little faster.
“Where did you see them last time?” I enquire, already dreading the answer.
“On my bed. With the fleece. ”
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