Buried Treasure – Funny Parenting Story
“Woo hoo! I found a plate!” my seven year old girl cries, picking up the long lost treasure from behind the couch. “And there’s my Barbie doll’s chocolate eclair, too. I wondered what had happen to it.”
Pull out your living room couch from the wall and discover a lost world of things that you had forgotten ever existed. . .
“No wonder the mice have been getting bolder. They’ve mutated into a species of super-mice. Look at all the half- chewed vitamin pills under here,” I sigh.
My oldest girl, at eleven, has taken an intense dislike to things of a medicinal nature, especially vitamin pills. She’s afraid she’ll choke on the adult variety of vitamins and hates the tastes of the “baby” kinds, so behind the sofa in the den has become her secret hiding place. I should have caught on sooner: The mice’s coats have been looking glossier lately. . .
“Money!” my youngest screams. “We can go to the movies!”
I hate to tell her that the quarter and three pennies and a video token won’t quite stretch far enough, but it certainly could go further towards buying a theatre ticket– or retiring the national debt–than it could on a Coke at the snack bar.
“Wrappers. Who’s been eating all this candy and dumping the wrappers behind the sofa?” I moan, knowing full well that it is the older girl again.
She appears at the doorway and smiles saucily: “Can’t prove it’s mine.”
“Can’t prove it isn’t,” I say, handing her the trash. This archeological dig is proving most interesting. I half expect to find some treasures from King Tut’s tomb– hopefully without the curse.
“Jewelry! Jewelry!” youngest screams in delight.
Thank goodness for those sharp eyes. I bend down to recover a myriad of ear-ring backs and play baubles. Maybe King Tut was buried here after all? Heck, if there’s a pyramid on Mars, there could very well be an ancient Egyptian tomb in West Texas. I should know. I’m informed. I read the National Inquirer.
“They’re mine!” calls out the eleven year old safely returned to her inner sanctum, otherwise known as “The Black Hole of Bedrooms”.
“How do you know that without looking at them?” I inquire. “Are you psychic?”
“She enters the scene again. “No, it’s just that my jewelry box is about empty–so they must be mine.”
That makes as much sense to me as a government conspiracy to hide the fact that there really is a pyramid on Mars. (Which does–I watch The X Files religiously, and not just because David Duchovny is a total babe.) I let out a too-long suppressed sneeze. An argument is brewing: little sister insists some of the jewels belong to her.
“This bracelet belongs to me! See? The dog chewed on it.”
“You can have that one then,” big sister concedes, “but I want all the good stuff.”
“It’s all been under the couch for God knows how long– none of it’s any good,” I growl, dumping the dusty lot into the bin. “What else have we got here?”
“Hey, car keys,” my oldest points out. “Didn’t we trade that car in for the Escort a while back?”
“We did,” I blush. “And we told them that we didn’t own an extra set.” What can I say? It was a true statement at the time.
“Does that mean we can still drive it?” my youngest asks. She had a thing for Mom’s chestnut’83 LTD, probably since it was the same color as her teddy bear.
“Only if it can make it out of the junkyard,” I sigh.
“Do I still have the other shoe that goes with this one?” the older one asks while dangling an indescribably odoriferous object in front of my nose.
I frown, valiantly trying to remain upright. “Good question. I don’t believe you’ve worn those since you were in the crawling stage, so it’s probably a moot point.”
“What’s a mutt point?”
“It means the dog can have it as another chew toy, dear. Let’s get the vacuum out and clean up this mess.”
Who knows how many historical objects flew up the hose of my Hoover Elite 350 that day? All I know is it made a horrible racket as it sucked up phenomena never before seen with the naked eye . . . and the Smithsonian called later in the week asking for the contents of my vacuum cleaner bag. Who knows? Maybe some day they will be put on display near the first ladies’ inaugural gowns, right the beside presidential lawn clippings. . .
Cindy Appel is a freelance writer, weekly online columnist, struggling novelist, and confused mother, wife and woman (not necessarily in that order). Read her column, “Every Day Is Mother’s Day”. Visit her site.