My daughter is a kleptomaniac. She’s not quite as good as her cousin Emma, as those of you who read my sister’s blog will know, but she aspires to operate on that level. And I think, given time, she most certainly will.
So far, in her vast, underground collection, she has managed to squirrel away such items as Aidan’s electric toothbrush, a knife (and not a butter knife, either – we’re talking a genuine, could cut your fingers off if only I sharpened it once in awhile, paring knife), and, quite possibly, my address book. All of these things have disappeared, never to be seen again. It’s a mystery where she put them.
This time, though, I thought I had her outsmarted. You see, this time, she stole the cordless phone. “Ha,” I laughed at her, “what you failed to consider is that I can press this little button on the base and make the phone ring, no matter where you hid it.” So I pressed the button and listened. No ringing sound. Kyra pulled up her shirt and showed me her bellybutton, trying to change the subject.
I got my cell phone and called our house. The phone upstairs rang, but the cordless didn’t so much as squeak. Kyra, ever-helpful, pointed up the stairs and said “mama, phone!”
“Kyra,” I said in my best of-course-you’re-not-in-trouble voice, “if you show mama where you put the phone, we can use it to call daddy!!!” I hoped that would give her some incentive to help out. She just flashed her tummy again.
So I walked around the house, inside and out, calling my own phone and listening for it to ring. It never did.
Right now, I have this image of it floating upside down in the dog’s water dish. Maybe that’s where it is, but I wouldn’t know. You see, right about the time that she took the phone, she also locked me out of the room with the dog’s food and water. All of our doors in here lock, which is somewhat ironic considering that I don’t even bother to lock the front door when I go out – anyone who wants to come in is going to come in, whether or not I lock the door, and I’d rather not lock myself out.
So Kyra apparently turned the little locky-doohickey on the inside of this door, and then pulled it shut on her way out. The key is inside the room. The dog’s food is inside the room. The dog and I are outside the room, both rather annoyed.
You’d think, with all of the training my husband got from the federal government, he would have learned to pick a lock somewhere along the line. But no. I asked him once, when we locked ourselves out of the house in Virginia (that time it was Shay’s doing), if he could pick the lock somehow. “Sure,” he answered mildly, “if I had the right tools.” Ummm… okay, but aren’t you supposed to be able to do it with a credit card or something?
This time, I didn’t even ask. I just asked him to report the tragedy to the Embassy. Later this week, they will send some workers to spring the dog’s food by removing the door or something.
Meanwhile, I still don’t have a phone. Or a paring knife. Or Aidan’s toothbrush. I do have one small demon of a child who, I am happy to report, has a very cute belly button.