Lost Things
Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony look around. Something is lost that must be found.
It's funny how in our times of need we regress to what we were taught as children. As a child, I was taught a lot of things by nuns.
Yes, I am a Catholic school survivor. I even have the plaid jumper to show for it. I switched from public school to a private, Catholic school in sixth grade and I never looked back. I went to an all-girls Catholic high school and I even graduated from a Catholic women's college. I loved my schools.
But as an adult, I can look back at some of the things I learned there and just shake my head. Still, in times of stress I find myself falling back into old habits.
Right now I am stressed because I can't find my daughter's birth certificate. I need it to sign her up for soccer and the deadline is fast approaching. (My friends who want to keep our daughters together again on the same team this year are going to kick my butt when they read this.)
I was wandering around trying to find it and wishing that my husband was here to blame for its disappearance when I caught myself muttering.
Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony look around. Something is lost that must be found.
If only it were so easy!
I wish Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost things, could help me find that piece of paper. I wish Saint Nicholas could bring me my heart's desire once a year at Christmas. I wish a handsome prince would swoop in on his noble steed and save me.
But none of those things have happened except, maybe, for the handsome prince part. But only if you consider a rusting 1972 VW Bug a noble steed.
I've gone so far as to e-mail my handsome prince in Iraq to ask if he knows where her birth certificate might be. Like its whereabouts are high on his priority list right now.
There is one thing about me that has not changed one iota since my days in plaid skirts and knee high socks. It still drives me insane when things aren't right. I hate it when something is missing. I hate it when I'm disorganized. If the nuns could see me now they'd be shaking their heads at me and giving me that look.
Come on, Saint Anthony! Do your magic, buddy. I really need you now. Before I go insane.
Update: I found it! Woo hoo! Saint Anthoy pulls one out of the bag.
It's funny how in our times of need we regress to what we were taught as children. As a child, I was taught a lot of things by nuns.
Yes, I am a Catholic school survivor. I even have the plaid jumper to show for it. I switched from public school to a private, Catholic school in sixth grade and I never looked back. I went to an all-girls Catholic high school and I even graduated from a Catholic women's college. I loved my schools.
But as an adult, I can look back at some of the things I learned there and just shake my head. Still, in times of stress I find myself falling back into old habits.
Right now I am stressed because I can't find my daughter's birth certificate. I need it to sign her up for soccer and the deadline is fast approaching. (My friends who want to keep our daughters together again on the same team this year are going to kick my butt when they read this.)
I was wandering around trying to find it and wishing that my husband was here to blame for its disappearance when I caught myself muttering.
Saint Anthony, Saint Anthony look around. Something is lost that must be found.
If only it were so easy!
I wish Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost things, could help me find that piece of paper. I wish Saint Nicholas could bring me my heart's desire once a year at Christmas. I wish a handsome prince would swoop in on his noble steed and save me.
But none of those things have happened except, maybe, for the handsome prince part. But only if you consider a rusting 1972 VW Bug a noble steed.
I've gone so far as to e-mail my handsome prince in Iraq to ask if he knows where her birth certificate might be. Like its whereabouts are high on his priority list right now.
There is one thing about me that has not changed one iota since my days in plaid skirts and knee high socks. It still drives me insane when things aren't right. I hate it when something is missing. I hate it when I'm disorganized. If the nuns could see me now they'd be shaking their heads at me and giving me that look.
Come on, Saint Anthony! Do your magic, buddy. I really need you now. Before I go insane.
Update: I found it! Woo hoo! Saint Anthoy pulls one out of the bag.
Labels: get to know me, husband, kids, life at home
posted by Major Mom at 9:07 PM
Karen is a military wife and stay-at-home mother to a seven-year-old daughter and a five-year-old son. A Boston native who’s lived in the Shreveport-Bossier area for eight years, she spends most of her time volunteering at her kids’ school, supporting her husband, playing with her friends and watching her hair turn gray. In between, she writes about her life here on her blog.
3 Comments:
Hey don't knock the bug, we had good time GOOD TIMES!
good thing you found it! I'd hate to have to come over there and kick your butt! LOL!
Anonymous (AKA Major Dad!): I don't call having to sit in the icy puddle on the passenger side seat for our first date as GOOD TIMES!
mshokie92: I dropped it off today and everything. Don't hurt me! ;-)
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