"Santiago, what have you been doing with all your pants?!?!" I yell on Monday morning as I stare at the white plywood bottom of his pants drawer.
"What do you mean, Mom? Nothing! I don't even have any pants!!" he retorts.
"That's my point, papa," I say.
So, I text Mommy, "Do you have any of his pants over there? We have none over here. I don't know where they've all gone!"
"Nothing over here," she says. "They're probably strewn about his room, and in his dress-up box, and under the bed..."
So I traipse upstairs and literally tear their room apart, which, really, just gave me an even bigger heart attack because, jesusagechrist, how can two little bodies make such a horrendously phenomenal disaster disguised under a thin veil of "clean enough"??
But besides the 4 million bits and pieces of army guy body parts, transportation pieces, puzzle corners, crazy bands, legos, legos, and more legos, at least 5 mismatched socks, about 386 crayon halves, and an inordinate number of feathers (that I still can not, for the life of me, place), I didn't find a single. pair. of. pants.
So, I move on to Saia's closet. Could she have hijacked them? They wouldn't even fit her. Why would they be in here? And, of course, they weren't.
I searched suit cases, hall closets, toy boxes, bathroom cabinets, and old backpacks. Running out of places to look, I began to resign myself to the fact that they just up and disappeared. Went the the way of the lost dryer sock. Gone. For good. Out there in the in-between world of misplaced clothes. Stuck forever in laundry purgatory.
So, off I go to the garage, flip open the top of the washer and am immediately, brutally, olfactorily assaulted by the smell of 6-day-old wet clothes.