Now, three years later, I’m doing it myself.  I’m rebranding.

mothergoosemouse has been my mommy blog.  Begun after a sudden cross-country move that turned every aspect of my life upside down, it has served as a constant source of comfort, friendship, and entertainment.  It also chronicles my children’s lives for the past three and a half years.  I cannot abandon it altogether, so the domain and archives will remain intact.

While I love writing about my children, it’s clear that op-ed is my passion, particular from a parent’s perspective: Delving into issues, analyzing them through a mother’s lens, gaining insights, drawing conclusions, and engaging in discussion those whose views conflict with mine – these are the high points of blogging for me and what I will focus on at my new site, The Mom Slant.

I never expected blogging to lead me where it has, and I’m still giddy with all the possibilities yet to be explored.  Much love and thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read mothergoosemouse.  I hope you will join me at The Mom Slant too.

I had to laugh as I explained that no, in fact, babysitters are free to turn down job offers. “I can’t FORCE anyone to watch you kids,” I told her.  “If I don’t pay them enough or if you terrorize them, they’ll probably say no the next time I call and ask them to babysit.”

I feel pretty fortunate that every time we’ve needed a babysitter, I’ve had plenty of phone numbers at hand.  And while there have been a few sitters that I’ve bumped to third or fourth string, I haven’t yet had a sitter turn me down because my kids were too much of a handful.

My poor mother wasn’t quite so lucky.

Now, of course it wasn’t ME who drove away our babysitters; I was a model child who only wanted to play double solitaire and the occasional game of I Doubt It – otherwise known as Bullshit.  The second-worst thing I ever did was laugh at my brother’s antics, like when he taunted our favorite babysitter for hitting puberty: “Eleanor has hair on her vagina! Eleanor has hair on her vagina!”

Never mind that his description was inaccurate and based solely on hearsay, it’s a wonder that Eleanor kept coming back to babysit for us – every day for a whole summer while my mother worked part-time.  But she did.

In retrospect, I understand why she stuck with us.  We may have been pains in the ass – rather, my brother was – but we were oddly entertaining.

Likewise, she was a little offbeat herself.  She could burp repeatedly, which fascinated both my brother and me, and she taught us the diarrhea song (cha cha cha).  She told us about how she wanted to be a Bobby Soccer but didn’t make it, and admitted that she made her boyfriend cry when she broke up with him.  She brought board games with her the first few times she babysat, but soon she taught me to play cards.  All three of us would play together by wrapping up one person in a blanket while the other two took the opposite ends and dragged the makeshift burrito around the house.

I think the closest we ever came to driving away Eleanor was also the time that my mother came closest to bumping her to third string.  It was the time that I did the worst thing I’ve ever done with a babysitter present.

I had gone downtown with Granny the weekend before, and she’d bought me candy on the first floor of Rikes.  Instead of spearmint leaves like usual, this time I’d chosen chocolate covered honeycomb chips, and they were in a small white bag in the refrigerator.  My brother took the bag out of the refrigerator and raced upstairs with it, waving it at me as he passed.

Incensed, I gave chase and tore after him – around the corner, down the hallway, and up the stairs where he’d already slammed the door to his room.  He and my special candy were in there alone, and I was sure that he wasn’t even EATING the candy but probably smashing it on the desk so that it would be RUINED, my special candy would be GONE just because he wanted to make me MAD and he had made me mad TOO MANY times before and he was NOT going to get away with it THIS time!

So I began pounding on the door.  When he didn’t open up promptly, I began kicking it as well.

CRUNCH

As that last kick connected with the hollow paneled door, it gave way and a small oval – the size of a ten year old’s sneaker toe – detached as if it were punched out like one of the paper dolls Granny used to buy for me.

Suddenly my special candy didn’t matter.  My fury at my brother evaporated.  All I wanted was to take back that last kick.

We all – Eleanor included – agreed not to tell my mother.

Of course, two days later my mother was vacuuming the stairs and at the second stair from the top found herself at eye level with that toe-shaped hole and shouted, “What the HELL happened HERE?!”

There really wasn’t any good cover-up that didn’t involve deliberate kicking, so I couldn’t even get creative with my explanation.  He took my stuff, he wouldn’t come out, I was mad, I was bad, end of story.

Surprisingly though, I was more concerned about whether my mother would continue to allow Eleanor to babysit us than about my own punishment.  In the forty-eight hours leading up to her discovery of the hole – really, I can’t believe it took her forty-eight hours; geez Mother, how about some attention to detail? – I worried more over the consequences for Eleanor than the consequences for me.

Eleanor remained our first-string babysitter that summer.  I have no idea whether she might have been put on disciplinary probation or given any other sort of talking-to by my mother, but I certainly never kicked another hole in my brother’s door.

But it wasn’t the prospect of a tax bill that kept me from gathering up our documents on February 1 and dialing up our accountant for his earliest appointment.  No, it was the prospect of dialing up our accountant and then sitting across a desk from him.  As I told Kristen, I’d rather go to the dentist for extractions than go see my accountant.

He was a wizened old guy who spent time in the Army (definitely Korea, possibly even WWII) and then in the IRS as an auditor.  His contact information made its way around Kyle’s office, and when we got the first draft of our crazy-complicated 2005 return back with a five-figure tax bill (no, I’m not kidding), we figured it wouldn’t hurt to spend another hundred bucks to have him take a second look.  He reduced our bill by three thousand dollars, and in doing so earned our future business.

I didn’t meet him until 2008, when I had to accompany Kyle to our annual appointment in order to handle our business return.  I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, but at the very least I thought he’d be personable.

I’m not sure the man even said hello.  I think he nodded at me.  I, of course, started to chatter away nervously, feeling compelled to fill up the silence.  Oliver was with me, so when I realized that this man was impenetrable, I focused on the baby instead.

He ignored both of us and asked me only for the information he needed, most of which I had to scramble for.  I had approached the appointment with the sense that it would be a tutoring session where I’d learn a thing or two.  Instead, it felt like a closed book final exam, and every time he asked, “What is your next expense?” and looked steadily at me, my metaphorical test score dropped another couple points.

But just like the year before, he got us a substantial refund.  So I breathed a sigh of relief that not only would we not have to pay, but I also wouldn’t have to face him again for another year, when surely I’d have my act together and would ace the exam.

This year, after all the W2’s and 1099’s rolled in, I still wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about calling for that appointment.  So I made Kyle call.

“He’s not available this year,” Kyle reported after phoning our accountant.

“What does that mean?” I asked.  “Did he die?”

Kyle shrugged.  “Don’t know.”

“Well, maybe your current co-workers can recommend another former auditor who can get us another substantial refund.”

We found an accountant who met the first criterium (former auditor), but was unable to make the math work in our favor.  That’s okay though.  While this guy’s not going to headline at Caroline’s anytime soon, he knows what he’s doing and he doesn’t scare me.  Even better, he held Oliver on his lap as he asked me, “What is your next expense?”

I may owe the government, but at least now I don’t fear the tax man.

Of course she did it nearly two months ago, which ought to give you an idea of the number of degrees of separation between her and me, but I read Amanda’s answers and thought it might be fun to do it myself.  Especially since I hear a lot about what a fabulous husband I have (and I agree, he’s pretty damn cool).

What are your middle names?

I’ll tell you my maiden middle name: Rush. I loved it and wanted to keep it, but said in combination with my married name, it sounded like I had a mouthful of cotton balls.

How long have you been together?

We met in March 1995.

How long did you know each other before you started dating?

Hmmm…maybe a few hours?

Who asked whom out?

Kyle asked me.

How old are each of you?

I’m thirty-seven.  Kyle turns forty this year.

Whose siblings do you see the most?

When we lived back east, we saw my brother more often.  When Kyle’s oldest brother lived here in Denver, we saw him more often.  Whom did we see most recently?  Kyle’s middle brother, last month in California.

Which situation is the hardest on you as a couple?

Remembering that we ARE a couple.  That sounds more dismal than it really is, but we have to seize our opportunities to chat and laugh together.  He’s at work all day, I’m working whenever I get two minutes to string together, we have three children and a full dance card.  I actually like it this way though, because I find scheduled date nights to be fraught with pressure: We MUST have a good time!

Did you go to the same school?

No.  We have no diplomas in common.

Are you from the same home town?

We’re both from O states.  That’s as close as we come.

Who is smarter?

When we play Scrabble, Kyle knows more words, but I know how to spell them.  Draw your own conclusions.

Who is the most sensitive?

Depends on the topic.  We both can perceive insult where none is meant.

Where do you eat out most as a couple?

We’re so boring.  CB & Potts for beer and burgers, India House for chicken tikka masala.

Where is the furthest you two have traveled together as a couple?

Istanbul.

Who has the craziest exes?

For fear of potentially poking the crazy with a sharp stick, I’m not even going to go there.

Who has the worst temper?

Duh.

Who does the cooking?

Another duh.

Who is the neat-freak?

Let’s make it a duh-fecta.

Who is more stubborn?

I’m stubborn more often, but when Kyle decides to dig in his heels, he totally kicks my stubborn ass.

Who hogs the bed?

The kids.

Who wakes up earlier?

Depends on his work schedule and how nice we feel like being to each other that morning.

Where was your first date?

We went to TGI Friday’s and played miniature golf.  Hey, we were living in Dayton.  There wasn’t much else to do.

Who is more jealous?

Neither of us, really.  We spent two years of dating/engagement separated by a few thousand miles, and two years of marriage separated by 100 miles.  Jealousy couldn’t survive that.

How long did it take to get serious?

We drove to New York for a weekend after knowing each other for three weeks.  I’d say that’s fairly serious.

Who eats more?

Sadly, I often do.

Who does the laundry?

Me.  I like it that way now that we have our own washer and dryer.  In New York and New Jersey, we sent it out.

Who’s better with the computer?

Usually me.  Which is really kind of frightening.

Who drives when you are together?

Usually Kyle.  Unless we’re making our way across northern Nevada and the bungee cords holding the top of the luggage carrier in place are about to snap.  Then it’s my turn.

We went through a few iterations of where to have the party and what to do at the party, but the one point on which there wasn’t much deliberation was whom to invite.  She rattled off a list of names, and I ticked them off on my fingers as I mentally jotted them down.

“Tacy, that’s twelve kids!”

“Oh wait, I’ve got a couple more.  How about…”

Unlike CJ, who issued verbal invitations to her party to anyone who’d listen, Tacy’s actually friends with all of her invited guests.  They’re not all from the same class, or even the same school, and they’re not all girls either.

I love to watch her with her friends – how they sling their arms around each other’s shoulders, how they feed off one another’s laughter, how they’ve got no sense of shame regarding their bodies or their affection for each other.  They’re so open and trusting; it’s refreshing.

Sure, they have altercations.  Tacy will come inside, looking glum, and she’ll tell me what somebody said or did, and what she said or did back, and how the whole exchange made her feel.  We’ll talk it out, and she almost always feels better immediately.  Moreover, the kids go right back to being friends.  I marvel out how short-lived these conflicts are.

I don’t remember it being this way when I was in elementary school.  I remember snippy spats and protracted disagreements, feeling as if my friends might drop me at any moment for unknown reasons.  We didn’t hug or parade naked around the house.  There was laughter, but rarely of the gasping-for-breath, holding-your-sides variety.

In large part, I believe my far-too-serious nature was responsible.  Teasing was perceived as an offensive, and jokes were always at my expense, or so I imagined.  I accepted everything that everyone said at face value, and then felt betrayed when I discovered they were exaggerating or even outright lying.

Since I’ve always seen so much of myself in Tacy, I wondered if she would inherit my excruciating earnestness, and I’d have to mercilessly tease it out of her.  Worse, I was terrified that her friendships would be impaired.  Each time I’ve gone in for a parent-teacher conference, I’ve listened attentively to the glowing reports on her academic performance, then asked anxiously, “But how does she do with the other kids?”  In turn, her teachers have looked at me quizzically and replied, “She’s fine.  She talks, she plays, she works well with her classmates.  She has lots of friends.”

I know the altercations are going to get worse.  She’ll say and do things, other kids will say and do things, and the resulting hurt feelings won’t be resolved by a five minute heart-to-heart with me.  It won’t be long before she won’t necessarily even tell me what’s bugging her.  She’ll go upstairs and shut her bedroom door, simultaneously shutting me out.

But the difference between my motherly fears and our mother-daughter reality is that even if she does choose to work out her conflicts in the confines of her bedroom, I’m confident that she can do it.  That she’ll emerge far stronger than I ever was, even when I was three times her age.

Tacy, thank you for showing me yet another way I love being your mother.

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Around the World in 80 Clicks – can we do it?  Yes, we can!  If you haven’t already heard of this cool new effort spearheaded by David and Catherine, in partnership with Global Voices Online, the idea is to get moms all over the world blogging about motherhood.

The specific topic is “Five Things You Love About Motherhood”, but I’m giving you permission to tweak it as necessary.  And while you can approach it from an excruciatingly earnest perspective, it’ll be a lot more fun if you get a little cheeky or self-deprecating.

Believe me, I ought to know about that.

I’m tagging a couple bloggers living in China: Donna, who writes Email from the Embassy, and Yemi, who writes Don’t Eat My Buchela(s)! Also, Arizaphale, who hails from Australia and writes Now Where Did I Put That Flaming Sword?, and Jennifer, who’s living in Italy and writes Italian Trivia.  All of you lovely ladies have been kind enough to visit me here at mothergoosemouse, and I would love to read your thoughts on this topic.

I’ve now reached the end of both the contest and the 30 Day Shred, and I’ve emerged victorious.  Over the past 30 days, I’ve lost 5.5 pounds, thanks in part to Jillian Michaels‘ drill instructor style (one I’ve always responded to well).  In the two months prior to that, I lost 4.5 pounds.

That’s right, ten pounds total.  I’m one good bowel movement away from the 120’s, a weight range I haven’t seen since before I got pregnant with Tacy.

I’m solidly back into my size six clothes (go ahead, throw vegetables at my head – I’ll smile while I saute them), and my waist has finally reemerged.  I will never get back into the Carmen Marc Valvo dress I wore for my rehearsal dinner (but I’ll be damned if I ever consign it), and my long-consigned Betsey Johnson dresses are merely a fond memory now.  As voluptuous as my hips have always been, they’re now childbearing hips – three times over – and in my pursuit of my former self, I draw the line at skeletal manipulation.

While Kyle exhorted me to play the game and come in second place in this contest – he had first place locked up from the day it started – I told him that for me, this was about more than winning money.  I wanted to change my habits.

What the 30 Day Shred did – besides help me lose more weight in one month than in the previous two months combined – was remind me of the importance of strength.

Strength is about more than just suffering through side lunges with anterior raises or bicycle crunches.  It’s not whether you use three or five pound hand weights, or whether you do modified push-ups, or whether you follow Anita or Natalie or Jillian herself.  Strength training, building lean mass, boosting metabolism – all of those are secondary to knowing where you want to go and how you’re going to get there.

And even more important than that?  Knowing that you CAN get there.

I will never look like I’m twenty-five again; Tacy’s big head and big behind made sure of that.  But I can do so much more now than I could then.  If someone had told me when I was twenty-five that I’d not only finish a sprint triathlon, but that I’d register for five more of them the next summer, I wouldn’t – no, I couldn’t – have believed them.

But now I can.

What do you want?  Do you have the strength to get there?

——————————

Part of the reason I needed the 30 Day Shred: my love for peanut butter.  Want to win a jar yourself? I promise it’s salmonella free!

Tacy, of course, was a little more chill, but still exuberant in her Valley-Girl-in-training way: “Omigod, that’s AWESOME!”

In spite of the fact that this trip was more about them than Kyle or me or even Oliver, I knew there would be moments when I’d wonder if they were having any fun at all, what with all the whining and complaining.  Because even on such a kid-centric trip as a Disneyland boondoggle, there’s going to be some whining and complaining.  The mere presence of Mickey Mouse doesn’t magically impart the perspective kids need to stand still in line on a blazing hot day, even if they know intellectually that it won’t be long before they’ll be serenaded by hundreds of dolls on a nice cool boat ride.

Even if they’ve got the perspective, as Tacy fortunately did, to wait their turn for the ride, they have no idea how worthwhile that wait will be.  We parents tend to lose sight of that point ourselves, understandably so.  The kids are hot and thirsty, confined to a small space where we parents may or may not allow them to climb on the bars or sit on our shoulders.  We’re tired of telling them to stand still or keep walking or take their hands out of their mouths or out of their pants.  The hand sanitizer spray is running low, and our patience is wearing thin.

And then we put on our 3D glasses, or are shown to our seats, or hear the parade music coming around the corner, and we – adults and kids alike – realize that the fun is about to start.  Most of the time, that realization is enough to snap us back into the celebratory mood.

But sometimes, especially for kids, it’s not.  When they’re too hot, too cold, too hungry, too thirsty, have to pee too urgently, or are just plain too wiped out to enjoy anything anymore, they don’t react the way we’d envisioned when we made the reservations months in advance.  Not every moment can be scripted, and even when we adults stick to the script, the kids are going to deviate from it occasionally.

The best moments for me are those when my kids’ reactions far exceed what I never dared hope for.  When I simply offer up the experience with no expectations in mind, and I’m completely overwhelmed by their reactions.

Our trip to Disneyland was filled with those moments.  When CJ gazed at the characters with love and grinned infectiously as she hugged them at breakfast.  When Tacy jumped up and joined the dancers during the Celebrate! street party.  When Oliver happily thumped on the lid of a cup of lemonade and stared with eyes like saucers at the Fantasmic! light show.  Each time, Kyle and I would look over at each other and feel our children’s joy multiplying exponentially in our own hearts.

Because while I don’t know how much of this trip they will remember, we’ll remember their enjoyment of it vividly.

Tacy and CJ do the Twist! from mothergoosemouse on Vimeo.

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Want some specifics about the ins and outs of Disneyland and Disney’s California Adventure from someone who’s been there and done that really recently?  I’ve laid it all out over at Mother Knows Best.

I’m going to Disneyland!

Despite last summer’s travel mishaps and my vow not to travel anywhere overnight with three children in tow until Oliver was at least three years old, opportunities have knocked that I simply cannot ignore.  Plus, airfare was ridiculously cheap, and we’re supposed to get snow here in Denver.

I feel a little bourgeois, going on a family vacation over Spring Break.  It reminds me of all my elementary school classmates who went to Florida or Hilton Head each year, while I stayed at home and hoped for the excitement of a tornado warning.

You went to the beach?  Well, I got to hide in the basement with a flashlight and a transistor radio.

Of course we went on family vacations.  But they were to places like Williamsburg and Cape Cod and Newport.  We finally made it to Florida when I was thirteen, and then to California when I was fourteen.  Lying around on the beach or traipsing around an amusement park wasn’t my parents’ idea of a family vacation.  A cruise – or worse yet, a camping trip – wasn’t even in the realm of possibility.

We went on vacation when it was convenient for my parents, not necessarily when we were out of school.  In sixth grade, we took a full ten days to drive out to Colorado Springs and back for my father’s reunion at the Air Force Academy.  But considering that sixth grade was perhaps the worst year of my entire life thus far, I was more than happy to miss school.

On the other hand, now that Tacy is in school, I’d really prefer not to voluntarily take her out if there isn’t some sort of educational aspect to whatever it is we’re doing.  Since Disneyland doesn’t qualify, it had to be over Spring Break, and our friends at Disneyland were willing to oblige.

And naturally, since we haven’t had more than a dusting of snow all winter, it’s only fitting that our first real storm is forecast for our day of departure.  After all, last year I made Tacy wait until May to visit my parents in Washington, and it snowed then too.

Perhaps if fortune is really on our side, CJ will throw up on the way to the airport again.

In any case, at least I can be confident that we’re not going to lose the luggage carrier – twice – again.

——————————

As if the girls weren’t already nearly peeing their pants with excitement over this trip, they got to check out one of the Disney Princess dolls too.  Which one did we choose?

I looked up when her mother walked over to the side of the pool where her little girl was sobbing.  The instructor looked up at the girl kindly, and her mother knelt down and spoke to her.  I couldn’t hear; they were too far away.

The instructor took the still-sobbing child in her arms and held her in the pool, looking her in the eye and smiling gently.  Her sobs persisted, and the instructor lifted her up to her mother.

CJ climbed out of the pool herself and made a beeline for me.  “I have to go poop,” she reported.

We headed to the locker room together, with the little girl and her mother close behind us.  I stripped CJ’s suit off her, and she entered a stall.  “Tell me when you’re finished,” I told her.

I was quiet and so was she.  We could both hear the other little girl sobbing repeatedly, “I don’ wan’ go in dat pool!  I don’ wan’ go in dat pool!  I don’ wan’ go in dat pool!”  She sounded frightened, not defiant.

I couldn’t see her or her mother.  I heard sharp words, fragments of threats, and then what sounded like flesh being struck, but the sobs didn’t reach a new crescendo.

I didn’t know what to do.

CJ called for me, and another woman entered the locker room.  I busied myself with making sure that CJ was clean, and then I helped her wriggle back into her wet swimsuit.

Five minutes later on the pool deck, the mother and daughter emerged.  The little girl was fully dressed and struggling to contain her sobs.  Her mother told her to the instructor and her grandparents, who had been watching, that she was sorry: “This was your one chance to show them how you could swim and you didn’t do it.”

With enormous eyes still filled with tears and a drooping mouth, she made her apologies.  The mother informed the girl: “When Daddy gets home, you are going to be in big trouble.”

I was horrified.  I couldn’t look away.  I gazed at the little girl in her tearful humiliation, and my own eyes welled up in sympathy.

I didn’t know what to do then.  I still don’t know now what I should have done for her – if there was anything I could have done for her.

After getting dressed, CJ and I walked hand in hand to the car.  As I fastened her seat belt, I bent down and kissed her.  “I love you, CJ.  I’m so proud of you.”

She beamed up at me.  “I so proud of you too, Mommy.”

Thank you, love.  I wish I could say the same.

He twisted around in his seat to retrieve his gym bag and dug through it, twice.  He checked all the pockets of his jacket, the console in the car, and the glove compartment.  No wallet.

By then, Oliver had begun to whimper, being strapped into his car seat in a motionless car.  Kyle turned to me and said, “I’m going back inside to see if I can find it,” so I got Oliver out of his seat and brought him up with me while we sat in the parking lot, vainly hoping that perhaps someone had turned in the wallet.

The minutes dragged by, and finally Kyle came back to the car, still empty-handed.  “They said they’ll check the tapes,” he told me.

I shook my head.  “If you’re lucky, someone will turn it in.  Minus the cash, of course.”

“Yeah.  Not likely.”  He shook his head too.  “I haven’t lost my wallet since I was in college.’

At home, he was uncharacteristically down and went to bed early.  I stayed up working, even later than usual, and was still awake when the phone rang at eleven o’clock.

Naturally, I assumed the worst and said a breathless hello, expecting to hear my parents or his parents on the other end.

“Have I reached Kyle (middle name) Marsh?” a man asked.

“This is his wife,” I replied. “Who’s calling please?”

“Did he lose his wallet?”

“Yes, just today. Do you have it?”

“My girlfriend does.  She found it.  In Georgia.”

“In GEORGIA?!”

He told me that his name was Patrick Buchanan, that he was traveling and would mail it when he returned home the following week, and that Kyle’s credit cards and driver’s license were still in the wallet, but the cash was gone.

I didn’t press him for more information; it was late, I was tired, and if he really did have the wallet – or have access to it anyway – I didn’t want to piss him off.  I did hit *69 after hanging up, to no avail.

So we waited.

——————————

The next morning, Kyle called the credit card companies – two VISA cards only, which in itself is a good reason not to carry a bunch of credit cards – to place a hold on his accounts.  “I don’t want to cancel the cards,” he told them, “because I may get them back.”

That afternoon, someone attempted to use one of his cards at an east coast golf outlet store and was denied.

After two weeks, we gave up.  Kyle canceled his cards, obtained a new bank card, and went to get a new driver’s license.  I went to Nordstrom and bought him a replacement wallet.

——————————

The following afternoon, I found a package in the mailbox addressed to Kyle (middle name) Marsh with a return address here in Denver.  It was a business address – looked like a law firm.

He was sitting at the computer.  I took the package to him and went back to the kitchen.

A minute later, he came into the kitchen, holding his old wallet.

My eyebrows shot up. “What’s in it?” I asked.

“My driver’s license, my military ID, the gift card I got at work, my bank card.  No cash.” He shook his head. “What the hell took him so long to send it?”

“And why was it sent from here in Denver?” I asked.  “I thought it was in Georgia.”

He shrugged.

Hours later, it occurred to me to ask specifically about the credit cards, namely the one that someone had tried to use.  “Were your credit cards in there?” I asked.

He checked his old wallet again.  “Actually, no.  Neither VISA card is still in there,” he replied.

“I wonder if the guy who called works for this law firm.  And if he traveled to the east coast that Monday.  And if he really has a girlfriend in Georgia, or whether your wallet was ever even IN Georgia,” I mused.

“Maybe we’ll find out when I call the firm on Monday.”

——————————

He called the firm and explained the story to the receptionist, telling her that all he really wanted was to thank whomever had returned his wallet.  She promised to email the entire office with that message, along with Kyle’s name and phone number, and hopefully someone would call him.

We’re still waiting.

Patrick Buchanan, if that’s really your name, thank you.  But when you get a chance, give Kyle a call.  Perhaps you two can chat over a bucket of golf balls.

——————————

Because the denouement of this story is so unsatisfying, I wasn’t going to post it.  But then I read Rita’s posts about her lost wedding ring and her interactions – both good and bad – with the store where she lost it, not to mention the amazing ability of Twitter to grab the attention of people who might be able to help.

I don’t know what I’m hoping for, especially since I’m not going to post the name of the law firm on the return address label of the package containing the wallet.  Who knows if the man who called our house that night even works there?

I suppose my intent is only to go on public record with what happened, to note that even though someone might escape the law, they can’t escape the Internet.