I locked us out of our apartment last week. It’s one of the hazards of living in a place where the doors automatically lock behind you. It was, surprisingly enough, my first time doing such a thing. The moment I closed the door I realized that I should have had my keys in my hand, rather than leaving them in the bag, and when I realized they weren’t in the bag, I immediately started to blame Oliver. He had taken my wallet and my phone out of the bag while I was getting us ready to go this morning, so I assumed he’d gotten the keys as well. They were probably on the floor, just barely beneath the couch. In fact, I could practically see them there in my mind’s eye. Why hadn’t I picked them up? How could I have let him do that?
Oliver Oliver Oliver. Mischievous child. Always hiding things from me. Always getting into trouble.
We stayed the afternoon at a friend’s house, and came home well after dark. I walked in and looked for the keys. Which were sitting on the bookshelf, where I usually put them, well out of Oliver’s reach. Just like when I lost me keys for a few days and assumed that Oliver had misplaced them, and then I found them in my drawer. Two feet above his head.
Forgive me child. I have much to learn.