My adult daughter calls from 2 states away needing a copy of her birth certificate yesterday! Apparently, in Chicago, you can't be employed without a proof of birth. (Interesting that Illinois is Obama's former political play yard, but that's another blog.) So I'm sifting and sorting through 20 yrs of immunization cards, report cards, baptismal certificates, and soccer photos desperate to locate the one stinking piece of paper that refuses to show itself!
The phone rings again and Sophie needs that one notebook with the scholarship info in it that she told me to store for her 5 months ago. And she needs it now, please. Could I just get that for her?
Just then the Frankencarmen bursts through the door. In harmony they yell, "Mom, where's my rosary?" and "Mom, where's my PE clothes?" And I yell back, "I lose my keys five times a day, every day and misplace my purse on a regular basis. How the hell do I know where your crap is?!"
But not really. Instead, I reach for the brand new bottle of Tums that was on the coffee table five minutes ago, I swear. And once I find that, I'm tracking down my sanity before searching for anything else. I think I'm gonna need it.
