I can understand how iPods go missing, along with socks and jewelry and keys.
They're small, small enough to remain hidden beneath a bed or a car seat, in the depths of a purse or beneath the cushions of a sofa.
Suitcases, however, are another matter entirely. No way they would stay undiscovered within the depths of my purse.
In spite of that, we tend to go through suitcases the way most people go through, well, socks.
"What the heck," complained the husband the other day.
He was going on a business trip and wanted to pack his clothes. He opened a cupboard downstairs, but could not find what he was looking for.
"You seen that mid-sized black suitcase?" he asked me. "You know, the one with a piece of gold ribbon tied to the handle?" I shook my head. "I think it's gone," I said. "Along with all the others."
The husband cursed quietly.
It wouldn't be correct, however, to say the suitcases have been lost. It's not as though we've returned from a trip and forgotten to visit the baggage carousel.
Oh, no. We know exactly where they are: in our children's homes away from home.
Let's just say our house has had a revolving door for some time now.
And the sons' general practice has been this: to leave with two bags and return with one. Multiple that by 12 or 15 leave-takings, and you get the picture. One missing mid-sized black suitcase, with or without the ribbon.
As we speak, in fact, I am betting the home of the youngest is so cluttered with suitcases, you can barely see the carpet. He probably has to walk over suitcases every time he needs to visit the bathroom.
Problem is, he lives in another province, far, far away. It's not as though we can whip on over just to pick them up.
The husband continued to rummage through the closet.
"You seen that little green one?" he hollered upstairs. "You know, with the gold trim?" "Also gone!" I yelled. "Haven't seen that one for months!" The husband cursed again. He had already called a cab to take him to the airport.
In the end, he managed, thanks to a backpack, two gym bags and a yoga bag.
"Well," he said. "Enough of this. When I get back, we're buying some new ones."
And so we would: one for him, and one for me. This time, however, we will not simply mark them with our names and inform the sons that they are off limits. This time, we're going to be thoroughly proactive and go one step further.
The new ones won't go in the cupboard at all. We'll hide them inside the sofa.
