Recently, I found a chocolate bunny that was left over from the Easter holiday. I stuck it in a sandwich bag, and I broke it into pieces. (Had I done the reverse—broken it up and then put it in a sandwich bag, I might have lost some of the smaller pieces…). I had been eating little bits from the bag each night.
After a few days of this nibbling, I went into the pantry closet to have my nightly ration. I looked where I thought I had left the bag, but I couldn’t find it. I searched one bin, then another. No bag of bunny bits. Bummer.
I must be going crazy.
The following night, I thought I should look again. Perhaps I had missed it the day before. Again, I searched the logical places, and again, I came up empty. Where could I have put that bag? I strained my memory trying to recreate my actions in returning the bag to the pantry.
“I know I had a chocolate Easter bunny in here,” I said to no one in particular. “I just can’t seem to find it.” I sighed. Loudly.
“Wait. That was yours?” C asked from where he sat in the living room.
I turned and looked through the doorway, studying him sitting on the couch, suddenly alert. “Did you eat it?” I asked accusingly.
“Nope. When W got home from school the other day, he found it in the pantry, and he asked if it was mine. I said no, so he assumed it was his. He ate it.”
“He ate my chocolate bunny?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure,” he said, sounding not quite certain. “You’ll have to ask him.”
“Ugh! I have been going crazy looking for that bunny!” I made the statement as dramatically as I could.
“Mom,” C retorted. “You are going crazy. Period.”