Panic Session

Early this evening Pooka and I went shopping with Mom while Matthew caught up on his sleep before he had to hit the late shift at work. We had a nice dinner, gave Pooks a bath, got her ready for bed, and Matthew got ready to go to work. Amidst all the nighttime preparations and routine, I noticed that Matthew was walking around with only a shirt on, which was, I confess, a little odd. Then I noticed that he was walking kind of fast, obviously looking for something, still no pants. Finally I asked him what was wrong, and he confessed he couldn't find his pants. So what? "Go put on some clean pants," I said, and continued struggling to get Pooks into the pants she had taken off four times already.
Still, Matthew was looking everywhere, even more frantic this time, and he confided in me the reason: no pants = no wallet or keys. By this time, he was already late for work, and we had both begun to rip the entire house apart. He insisted that, as usual, he put both his shirt and pants on our big chair just after coming through the door. When we had both checked every possible place we could think of, including every kitchen cupboard and the fridge and freezer, I started to freak. I had all of these strange scenarios run through my head, of theifs following my husband through the door to steal his wallet and keys, just grabbing the clothing they were in in their haste then lurking around, waiting for us to leave - or worse, not caring if we left at all. I even made Matthew go down to the car and see if he had taken the clothes off there and walked up in his underwear. As unlikely as it was, it was a more pleasing thought than thinking someone had the keys to every important lock in my life.
In the meantime, Pooka is running through the house after her manic parents - again no pants - and singing "twinkle little star" at the top of her lungs in a key closest to a dog whistle. Just after insisting that Pooka and I were staying the night at my folks, that we were re-keying everything tomorrow, and that Matthew start calling in lost/stolen debit cards and such, I checked the dryer again. This time, I actually saw what I was looking for - Matthew's dirty pants, wallet keys, and belt, his shirt and socks, and Pooka's shirt and socks mixed in with my clean whites.
Then I realized that my dear sweet angel of a daughter had "helped" Mama do the laundry all on her own.
Moral of the story: ALWAYS suspect the child. Period.