We moved a few times when I was little. First from Paris to NY the summer I turned 7. Three years later from NY to London, and three years after that from London back to Paris.
That’s a lot of packing and unpacking in a six year period and a lot of opportunities for things to get lost in transit, which is undoubtedly why I grew up hearing that whatever that thing I was looking for had probably “gotten lost in the move.”
I never doubted my mom when she said that. I could all too easily imagine how a box could have not made it onto the truck, how a book might have fallen out, how some beloved toy might have been misplaced. I truly, honestly, always believed that movers aren’t the most attentive people and that stuff had just gotten lost.
And then I started packing up my house to move.
Many things have “gotten lost” this week. Broken toys. Things the girls never play with. Books that have seen better days or are brand new because no one ever took a liking to them. Clothing I hate or that simply no longer fits. Just stuff that can’t be categorized and therefore is challenging to pack.
I’m not telling the kids that these things are making their way into trash bags or donation bags, I’m just putting them there and assuming that they won’t notice in the general chaos that is our house this week.
Yet I know that once we’re settled, once we’ve unpacked and the novelty of having a shiny new playroom has worn off I’m going to start hearing plaintive little voices asking “Mommy? Have you seen…” or “Mama? Where is my…”
And I know that I’ll look them right in the eye, shrug, and say as innocently as possible “I dunno, must have gotten lost in the move…” all while silently forgiving my mother for doing the same all those years ago.