Truly I Fear for Them . . . .

Between all three of the people I live with there is such a dearth of simple observation of surroundings, it just boggles my mind.  Before looking for anything on their own, most of the time, it's "Mom, where is. . . .?"

Mom, where is the back of my truck?  (Between the easel and the cabinet, right where you left it.)

Mom, where is my white phone?  (It's silver, and it's out in the garage on the blue table, and it needs batteries.)

Mom, where are my Pikachu and Raichu Pokemon cards?  (I have NO IDEA.  Nobody's perfect and there are too many of those damn cards floating throughout the house.)

We had a set of keys missing for a few days.  Steve's.  He let Thea get out at the mailbox, fetch the mail and run it to the house.  Somehow in the unloading of the car, dumping of the lunchbox and backpack and tossing off the coat, no keys.

And while he thought they were in the house, there was the off chance that Thea could have closed the mailbox and left the key in the lock.  The ring has a car key, the mailbox key and our house key on it, and while our neighborhood is relatively quiet and crime-free, the idea of keys being out in the universe somewhere was just a wee bit unsettling.

Supposedly Steve, both with and without his accomplice, tore apart the house several times without any luck.

Saturday we put a sign up at the mailbox (with his cell phone number only).  Tonight I started to look through Thea's backpack and there was the key ring right on the steps where she drops her backpack every night.  Practically in plain sight.

Detective work or anything requiring close observation of their surroundings is not in any of their futures.  Some days it's like living with Helen Keller, Ray Charles and -(insert the name of a visually-impaired person of your choice because I can't think of anyone else)-, I swear.


Thankfully I can sleep better now that I don't have to imagine the nasty neighbor lady who felt I backed up into our driveway at a speed that was unsafe slitting my throat while I sleep. . . .