A couple weeks ago, my daughter's two leotards mysteriously disappeared. I searched every conceivable place, over and over, ad nauseum. I was ready to pull my hair out. She and I were both praying earnestly that we would find them because she had an important audition coming up in her dance class, and her teacher had made it clear that appropriate dress was mandatory. I was not about to go out and slap down another 30 dollars for a new leotard. I racked my brains trying to recall the unusual circumstances surrounding the last time I had seen them: I was pretty sure I had done her laundry the day after the last dance class she had worn a leotard to. I vaguely remember pulling her leotards and tights out to drip-dry, but oddly enough the washer had overflown, so I called our plumber over to snake the drain line... Maybe the plumber stole them?
As ludicrous as that seemed, I was so desperate that I was even working out a dialogue for a phone call to at least call and ask if he remembered seeing them. Nothing was sounding very coherent.
So this morning I was collecting my 5-year-old son's laundry when I noticed a wad of something pink peeking out from under his pillow. There they were, both leotards and three pair of tights, wrinkled and forlorn, but not pinched by the plumber. I asked my son about it, and why he didn't speak up when he knew we were looking for them. "I didn't know they were called leotards." And then the million-dollar question, "Why did you do it?" His answer: "I don't like driving to dance class. It's boring." So I guess he figured if he hid her dance clothes, we wouldn't go to dance. I can just envision his golden moment when he saw the leotards hanging there, and the little light came on in his head. How disappointed he must have been last week when we went anyway, my daughter in Jazz shorts and a t-shirt.
Maybe there's a children's book in there...