Hey Fam, My Uterus Isn't A Tracking Device

Hey Fam, My Uterus Isn’t A Tracking Device

Oksana Shufrych / Shutterstock

Hey kids, you know those two blinking orbs in your face called “eyeballs”? Please swivel them in my direction for a few moments so we can have a little chat. Because I’m pretty sure you’ve forgotten how to use them properly.

Those pretty peepers were designed for something called “seeing.” I know you can do it because I’ve paid hundreds of dollars to an optometrist to verify your ability. I’ve also witnessed it in action: You can stare with laser-like focus at random YouTube videos (Unboxing? Gaming tutorials? Why?).

You can also detect, with uncanny precision, the slightest transgression on the part of a sibling — because you rush to tattle at the first hint of wrongdoing. And I’m sure that every time you roll them it’s, like, some sort of toning exercise, so they ought to be nice and strong.

Long story short, I can guarantee they’re in perfect working order.

So, please, for the love of Beyoncé, help me understand WHY YOU CAN NEVER FIND YOUR OWN STUFF. Despite the presence of two fully functioning optical organs, you can never seem to locate anything that belongs to you, and this problem seems to get much worse when we’re in the biggest hurry.

“We need to go! Get your shoes on!” I say.

“I can’t find them! They’re missing!” you whine helplessly.

Your exhausted tone would make sense if you had combed every room from top to bottom, probed each crack and crevice, and moved heavy furniture to look underneath it. However, that would take much longer than 15 seconds, which is approximately how long it takes you to scan the living room and abandon your search.

And when I go to help you look, annoyed as hell, there they are — lying around in plain sight, virtually impossible to miss. You had to have laid eyes on them multiple times.

It’s not a difficult task, kid. I’m not asking you to find a Cheerio in a ball pit.

You’re nothing short of eagle-eyed when it comes to someone taking the teensiest teaspoonful of your ice cream sundae, or when someone has moved your piggy bank a smidgeon of a millimeter to the left, or when your friend from six blocks down the street steps onto his front porch. So I fail to understand why you’re unable to see the things that are literally in front of your face.

And it isn’t limited to just shoes — ohhh no. If I had a nickel for every time you prefaced a sentence with, “Mooommm, where is my…?” (Underwear! Backpack! Fidget spinner!) I’d be day-drinking on a private beach somewhere. A blissful place where there are no “lost” items to locate. I have a bazillion things to remember as it is, without being asked to recall the last time I saw your Xbox remote, which was inexplicably wedged between the bed and the wall, underneath your dirty pajamas.

Listen up, children: My uterus is not a tracking device. Just because I have the ability to find everyone’s crap doesn’t mean I have the responsibility. Or the willingness. Your things aren’t missing, you’re just too lazy to actually search for them, and I’m beyond over it. So here’s a friendly heads up: Next time you “lose” something that isn’t actually lost at all, I’m most likely going to lose something too.

My temper. So look out.