[Note: I wrote the rough draft for this essay last August. This August I dusted it off and polished it up because the event still makes me smile. And because sometimes, I procrastinate!]
I pull on my shorts and turn to grab the belt from the blue jeans I wore yesterday.
Empty belt loops stare at me.
I look on the floor, under the bed, and on the hook in the bathroom. No belt. I search the living room and my closet. No belt. I rummage through a load of clothes in the washing machine. No belt. I’m now looking in places I know I won’t find it, but I’m desperate. It’s my favorite belt, and it’s reversible—brown on one side, black on the other, an accessory with dual functionality.
I’m shocked that I can’t find it. It’s not one of those wide belts from the 1980s, resembling a four-lane highway, but it’s still forty inches long and three-quarters of an inch wide—bigger than the earring I lost for two months, then found in the bottom of the dishwasher. I don’t look for my belt in the dishwasher.
I wonder: Is my brain short-circuiting? Am I in a science-fiction movie? Did my grandkids put it somewhere?
I can’t blame my grandkids because I was wearing the belt yesterday when their mom picked them up. But I want to; it would be easier. When I was a child, anything my parents couldn’t find was blamed on my siblings and me. Convinced we usurped the item and lost it, they yelled, “Find it, right now.” While this was occasionally true about the kitchen scissors or pencils or the clean clothes we hid in my sister’s closet because we hadn’t folded them, it wasn’t true about some things my parents couldn’t find—like random pieces of mail from the stack by the phone. But unable to find my belt, which has vanished, I understand my parents’ belief that the unexplained disappearance of an object must involve children.
My grandsons, Evan, almost four, and, Charlie, almost two, arrive. The belt search must wait. I tell myself, Go about your day and the belt will reveal itself. I hope it doesn’t take two months like my earring. I’m still not looking in the dishwasher.
Distracted by busy toddlers, I forget about the belt, for the most part. Still, in brief interludes, I search where I’ve already searched. The absurdity of looking again and again on the floor, under the bed, and on the hook in the bathroom isn’t lost on me. I even look in the belt loops of pants I didn’t wear yesterday. There’s a line I won’t cross—I don’t look in the dishwasher. If I had time, I’d have a meltdown, but Evan and Charlie provide too many diversions.
“Look at this, Nana,” Evan says.
“Hi, Nana,” Charlie says.
“Can you read me a story?”
“Can you put new batteries in my train?”
“Di-dy.” Charlie’s pooped his diaper.
“Nana, I hafta go potty.”
“Can I watch Mickey Mouse Clubhouse?”
Variations of these conversations go on all morning and into the afternoon. When Charlie takes a nap, my work load is halved, and I wonder about my belt.
“Evan, help Nana look for her belt.”
“Okay, where is it?” he asks.
“Because I can’t find it.”
Evan’s interested in finding the belt, but he’s asking why a lot more than he’s looking. I open my junk drawer, find a small pen flashlight, and turn it on.
“Evan, take the flashlight and look under the couch and behind the couch for my belt.” I know he won’t find it, but I hope to slow his jabbering, so I can concentrate on finding my belt.
He accepts the flashlight like he’s Luke Skywalker and I’m Obi Wan Kenobi, and I’ve handed him a light saber. (Flashlights fascinated my siblings and me when we were little, and thinking about it, I remember my parents looking for those too.) Evan wields the light in corners, under furniture, and in closets. He keeps asking, “Why did you lose your belt, Nana?” He’s looking for my belt in places where it won’t be found. But the belt has inexplicably vanished, so maybe it’ll turn up in a place that defies logic.
While Evan is brandishing the penlight, I retrace my steps from last night, hoping to jog my memory. Nothing comes to mind.
After fifteen minutes of looking everywhere but the family room where Charlie is sleeping, Evan’s fascination with his light saber wanes, and I can’t think of anywhere else to look. We pass the rest of his brother’s naptime with books, blocks, and Evan’s occasional, “Why did you lose your belt, Nana?”
When Charlie wakes up, he’s surly. The three of us go outside because fresh air improves Charlie’s mood. We walk across the deck, descend the stairs, and traipse across the grass on our way to get toys from the shed.
I spot a long, brown entity stretched out tip to tail in the grass, sunning itself under the warm afternoon July sky after last night’s cool rain.
“My belt,” I shout.
“Where, Nana?” Evan asks.
“There.” I point. “Sunning itself like a snake in the grass.”
Similar to video replay, it comes back to me, what I couldn’t conjure up earlier when I tried.
I dozed off last night while watching TV, and when I rose to go to bed, my dog decided she wanted to go potty. But I had to go first. When I finished, I pulled up my jeans but didn’t zip or button them or buckle my belt. I was tired and figured I’d just have to undo it again in a couple of minutes. I went outside with the dog, who piddled, then I went back inside to bed, but not before my belt slithered onto the grass.
“Why is it in the grass?” Evan asks.
“It fell out of my belt loops last night when I took the dog outside.”
“Why did it fall out?”
“Nana, was your belt really a snake in the grass?” he asks.
“Yes, a sneaky snake sunning itself so it could dry off because it spent all night in the rain.”
“But was it really a snake?”
“No,” I say, “but do you think it’s fun to pretend it’s a snake?”
“Yes.” His face grins in all directions. He asks me to tell him the story again. He wants all the details. He’s sorting out what happened and why. I’m not sure what Evan learns from my experience, but he never laughs at me or asks me why I didn’t buckle my belt or zip and button my pants.
I learned I should buckle my belt when I leave the house. And, I maintained some dignity—I never looked in the dishwasher.