All my life I’ve shared.
My crayons, my toys, my cookies, my secrets. Even, on a few occasions, my shoes.
Then I had kids.
And I discovered that sharing is not caring because your stuff will get taken and NEVER RETURNED.
Also, nothing is truly yours ever again, except maybe your underwear and even then, no guarantee.
This is why, years ago, I started the Secret Supply Stash, things that I’ve had to buy and hide so they wouldn’t disappear. They’re only used by me and their locations are only known to me. In fact, I’m the only one who knows they even exist.
I’ve had to buy a secret stapler, secret black Sharpie, secret scissors, secret Scotch tape and even, a hammer**. Which is so adorable — it’s splashed with hot pink and flowers, and this secret hammer even has its own SECRET SCREWDRIVER. (Psssst. It’s hidden in the handle!)
And it’s ALL MINE because it is in a spot where no one will ever find it … No, not the refrigerator although that would be a brilliant hiding place because no one ever finds anything in there. I’ll give some super explicit directions, a la Apple Maps, and they still can’t find the leftover gnocchi. No, I tucked that hammer in with my hodgepodge of craft supplies where no one dares to venture — it’s the storage closet equivalent of the black hole that is my purse.
Now I’m a few measuring spoons short of a full set, which sounds like a euphemism for my declining mental status but it’s not. I’m serious. The latest thing that has my — and MINE ALONE — panties in a twist is the disappearance of my measuring spoons.
Over the years I have purchased at least three and possibly as many as five sets of measuring spoons. Plastic ones, rectangular ones, regular roundies, oval ones. I was rummaging through the silverware drawer trying to find a 1/8 teaspoon and there was not a one. Then I couldn’t find a half tablespoon, which is a weird but surprisingly useful measurement. I pawed through all the rest of the little compartments in the top two drawers. No sign of any rogue measuring devices. So out of the five-ish sets of spoons, how many full sets do I have? NONE.
I got so angry that I stopped mid-cookie dough making and plopped down in front of the computer to order a cheap set of measuring spoons right then.
Not only will I never separate the spoons from the ring binding them all together (which is one of the reasons I got into this mess in the first place), but they will never ever EVER be placed in the silverware drawer for just anyone to use. This spoon family will remain together always, like some sort of weird culinary utensil commune, and I will just deal with the fact that if I use one, I have to wash all six (THERE IS A HALF TABLESPOON!!!).
These will be mine forever. It’s a foolproof plan. If I can remember where I hid them …
*Decent, but not great, band name.
**I’m pinning this one on Joe. None of the kids would ever voluntarily use a hammer for anything and if they did, it would only because Joe was making them help put together Ikea furniture. And why did I have my own personal hammer? Because when I got married my grandma thought I should have my own tools and toolbox to fix things all by myself, which I thought was a neat gift. Was this also a commentary on my husband’s handyman abilities? I’m not saying, but I will leave you with this …