My life has become a scavenger hunt.
Today, I found my ice cream scoop in the overstuffed chair in the living room.
I wasn't hunting for that particular kitchen gadget when I discovered it sitting there, and I still have no clear understanding about why it was removed from the kitchen drawer and dropped onto the chair. I doubt I'll ever find the reason, and even if I did, I doubt I'd understand it.
Later, I was searching for the remote to the television in the family room. Naturally, I couldn't find it because it wasn't in the family room. I found it later under the table runner on the kitchen table. I still don't know why it didn't occur to me to look there first.
Last summer, my attempt to make cookies was thwarted when all of my measuring cups turned up missing. They were later found strewn across our back yard. I never did find out why.
They say, as you get older, you misplace things, forget things and just plain have memory problems. I'm not buying that. Here's the real reason we think we're losing our minds: It's an evil plan, thought up by our young, to bring us down.
So far, it's working splendidly.
Much like the young, ferocious wildebeests of the Kalahari, challenging the elders in their herd for dominance, our young use their youthful wiles to bring us down. No blood is involved, but we're brought down just the same.
A few years ago, I noticed that my silverware was running short. I was missing a lot of forks and spoons. Knives were doing all right, but the other utensils were somehow disappearing into a black hole.
I was forced to purchase new, everyday silverware to maintain our schedule of eating meals on a regular basis. It wasn't until later that we figured out that our utensils were going into the garbage.
You see, my offspring had realized that maybe if they mess up badly enough on a chore, I would never ever ask them to do it again. That's my theory on why my silverware was ending up in a landfill. They were attempting to get out of clearing their place at the table by throwing out their silverware when they scraped off their plates.
It worked. I had to resume that chore because I couldn't afford to keep letting them do it themselves.
They're a wily bunch. You should never turn your back on them because you don't know what Machiavellian scheme their little, prepubescent brains are coming up with next.
Lose your keys? Ha!
Can't find your glasses? Check your kids.
Walk into a room and can't remember what great reason you were there for? I'm afraid I can't help you there. That's probably not your children's fault.
This week, the scavenger hunt that is my life has reached epidemic proportions. This time I've lost my mind.
You might say, how can that be?
And therein lies the problem: I've begun talking to myself.
I ask questions; I answer questions. I carry on little political debates with myself where I always win, of course. I've been reduced to having conversations with myself, and it's the fault of my young. Is it too late to send them back to the Kalahari?
Freelance columnist Pamela Troeppl Kinnaird can be reached at needitor@ nwlink.com.
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