Here's a bit of advice I wish someone had given me, once I had a child: HIDE. YO. JEWELRY. (DUMBASS).
I know! Small, shiny, expensive things plus small, grabby, impulsive toddlers. Who woulda thunk THAT was a recipe for disaster? Certainly not me. Because, well, (DUMBASS).
Once, a looooong time ago, my engagement ring vanished from my dresser. I looked everywhere for it. I knew it had to be in the house somewhere, and I suspected that then-two-year-old Noah was probably responsible for the disappearance, but that didn't exactly help me find it. And the house is full of places from which no ring would ever likely return: floor vents, an uncovered hole in the wall from a budget cable install, drains, toilets...God. Damn. It.
About a month later I randomly picked up a small ceramic Noah's Ark someone gave us (because GEDDIT?) and heard something rattling around inside. After a little shaking and prodding...out fell my ring. There was exactly one gap large enough for it to fit through -- right between a giraffe and a elephant -- and that's exactly where Noah had put it.
Two years ago, my wedding band went missing -- not my ORIGINAL wedding band, of course. That one cost us all of thirty-five bucks, and sports a typo on the engraving, for that extra touch of class. That one was right where I left it, on my nightstand.
But the gorgeous diamond one? The one Jason bought me after Ezra was born, the same year as our 10th wedding anniversary ? The single most beautiful piece of jewelry I'd ever been given that we really couldn't afford but he didn't care because he loooooved me?
I was devastated. I couldn't even wrap my mind around the idea that it was gone, that I might not find it. I moved furniture, I emptied drawers, closets, and upended everything besides the floorboards in our bedroom. Then I did the same thing to every other room in the house. I quizzed the boys -- especially Ezra, who was not even two years old, but fearsomely mobile. And adorably verbal in the LEAST HELPFUL WAY POSSIBLE.
"Where's Mommy's ring, Ezra?"
"Mommy ring all gone!"
"HERE MOMMY RING, MOMMY!"
*hands over glow-in-the-dark plastic ring from the dentist's office, beams proudly*
"Sigh. Thanks, dude."
I kept hoping that like my engagement ring, it would turn up again, eventually. In some crazy, off-the-wall place. Eventually, though, I gave up.
Jason somewhat not-so-secretly suspected the cleaning service we used for awhile -- I really didn't, but I did come to accept that the likely solution to the puzzle was that my ring got knocked to the floor and vaccuumed up. Especially since by the time it occurred to me to call and beg them to not empty the vaccuum bag...they'd already emptied the vaccuum bag.
(As much as I hate housework, we no longer use a cleaning service. And no lie, the biggest reason I let them go -- besides the cost -- was that I wanted the freedom to drop important shit on the floor occasionally without fear of losing it.)
I went back to wearing my plain original band and nothing else -- even my engagement ring became painful to look at, because I couldn't stop picturing how much nicer it looked next to that beautiful, wonderful, missing-forever ring that I lost because I was careless and too lazy to stick it in my jewelry box or HELL, open the DRAWER that was RIGHT THERE instead of tossing it on my toddler-eye-level nightstand like an IDIOT, and WHY didn't I ever get around to adding it to our homeowners' insurance like Jason asked me to, GAAAAHHHHHH IDIOT.
My most recent gasp of ring-recovery hope was the thought that maybe it would turn up in 16 years or so, on a carrot. That could happen again, right?
No. Probably not.
But I think I like this ending better anyway.