The Ring: Part Two

This is a follow-up post to a piece I wrote a few months ago about losing my wedding ring. I’ve never been happier to write the rest of the story…

The Ring: Part Two

My two-year-old son, Wesley, has this habit of taking his toys to bed with him. His diggers, his trucks, his trains. And this is fine, perfectly fine, until he can’t find one of them at naptime.

That’s when all hell breaks loose, like the other day.

Trouble kindled around 9 o’clock that morning, long before his nap, when we were minutes away from walking out the door.

“Crane?” I heard him say, and with one word he echoed that quiet desperation only a mother’s ears can hear. To stave off a monumental meltdown, I shouted to my oldest daughter, who was tying her shoes in the other room.

“Rainey, can you help your brother find his crane, please?”

“C’mon, buddy,” she said to him, “Let’s go find your crane.”

The two of them locked hands and swept the house in hopes of finding his favorite toy, but when their search turned up nothing, the flip-outs began.

“Crane? Crane?! CRANE!” his voice escalated until the dog down the street started barking.

But thankfully my boy is just as easy to distract as he is prone to pitching fits, so with a package of Nutter Butters and the promise of watching The Polar Express in the car, he stopped screeching long enough for us to leave the house.

I never gave his CRANE! another thought until I pulled into the driveway a few hours later, about a half-hour past his normal naptime. Rookie mistake. Crossing the threshold must’ve triggered his memory of that morning’s events because as soon as we walked through the front door, he started whining for his missing toy.

Again, we hunted throughout the house, and again, we found nothing. So for the next half-hour I wrestled my son into his pajamas (another naptime fetish) and lectured him on how to keep better track of his belongings.

Because I like a good exercise in futility.

Finally, both of us sweaty and exhausted, I coaxed him into his crib with his green tractor (the day before’s favorite) and kissed him goodnight. Thank you, John Deere.

After staggering out to the living room, I sunk into the couch, closed my eyes, and continued to conduct a mental search of all the possible places my son’s toy could be. Then, after about ten seconds, I promptly fell asleep.

We both woke up from our respective naps hours later, and when I walked into his room, like a broken record, the first word out of his drool-stained mouth was, “Crane?”

So we picked up where we left off, retracing steps and upturning furniture, stomping and fussing and wishing we’d sound-proofed the windows. Then I recalled that he read a book with his older sister that morning on the couch where I’d been snoozing all afternoon.

I walked over and lifted the cushions, hoping to find the missing toy, but instead, covered in lint, cat fur, and a crushed combination of Cheez-Its and Cheerios, I found my wedding ring, the one that’s been missing since October.

“I found my ring!” I screamed, and then I danced. I danced around the couch. I danced around the coffee table. I danced around my son, who stood staring at me like I’d just lost my mind. Soon, though, he wiped the tears from his face and joined the revelry.

That evening my husband booked a table for five at our favorite restaurant to celebrate, and over ribs and root beer, we speculated on how my ring survived four months stuck in the crack of our couch.

“I just don’t get it,” I shook my head. “I looked there a thousand times. I even vacuumed under the cushions.”

“Yeah. You might want to do that again,” my oldest daughter quipped.

Then my husband guessed, “Maybe it was Wesley. It’s possible he found it somewhere else and shoved it between the cushions.”

“That’s what I think,” my middle daughter agreed. “He’s always taking stuff from my room.”

Wesley, covered in barbeque sauce and emptying the contents of the salt shaker on the floor, licked his fingers and smiled, oblivious to the blame that just landed squarely on his shoulders.

But later that night, after tucking him in with the crane we eventually found behind the door of his sister’s bedroom, I couldn’t stop smiling either. Because at the end of the day, it doesn’t really matter where our toys have been. Just as long as we find them again, and have family and friends who will dance with us when we do.

“Or imagine a woman who has ten coins and loses one. Won’t she light a lamp and scour the house, looking in every nook and cranny until she finds it? And when she finds it you can be sure she’ll call her friends and neighbors: ‘Celebrate with me! I found my lost coin!’
(Luke 15:8-9, The Message)

Comments

  1. Linde Fisher says:

    Hi Megan, glad you finally found your ring. I had a similar situation after Uncle Butch came home from Viet Nam. Lost a necklace he gave me from Viet Nam. I was crushed; found it the following Spring in the snow where I hung clothers on a clothes line. I did the same; shouting; dancing; and crying with joy.
    I at times read your journal and find that you are really GOOD. You need to write a book honestly. Love you.
    Aunt Linde. x0x0x0x0

  2. Hey Meg,
    Love your story !!! What a great one. I lost my passport -not as valuable as your ring but it cost a pretty penny to replace it. I so love your story…. Rejoicing with you and I will remember to dance when I find my passport.
    Your aunt is right you need to rwirte a book..
    Love you,
    Mitzer

  3. I think one reason God allows this kind of thing to happen to you is to give you great material for a story!! We love the end to this story….many thanks to Wesley for creating the circumstances of the finding-the-ring day!!! So happy the lost is found!

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