Yesterday I got a text message from my son at college. He rarely actually calls home, and we do communicate via text, but generally I’m the one initiating the conversation. So it was surprising to hear from him first.
Until I read the message: “Did I bring my brown flipflops home?”
He had come home for a brief hour before Hurricane Irene blew through, to pick up work boots, bottled water and a swimsuit–and to appropriate his dad’s rain poncho.
I remembered that he had been wearing the flipflops at the time, and texted that back as I walked through the house, cell phone in hand, looking for where the stray beach shoes might be.
Of course, if he had the shoes on when he was here, he had to wear something on his feet to drive back to Philly. They’re certainly not here.
Even though my kids (and husband) firmly believe that my superpower is finding the stuff they lose, I’m pretty sure that my internal radar for such things can’t cross the Delaware River or the Roosevelt Boulevard.
When we concluded the conversation, he told me that his roommate had rearranged the furniture this week, and that he’d go look under his roommate’s bed for the shoes. Good idea. Maybe he is learning something at college.
But I have to admit–it’s nice to be needed.