Tuesday morning. 8:10am. 

The phone rings one traffic light before the entrance to the highway, and the computerized voice in the car announces that my spouse is calling. My stomach drops: this is likely not good. “I hope nothing’s wrong,” I say to my carpool buddy as I press the “answer” button on the steering wheel.

“Hi Honey,” his voice is tense. I catch my breath. “Things are a bit akimbo here and we’re hoping you can help us. Mr. 17 is trying to find his clean clothes. I know you put Mr. 15’s clothes in the dryer before breakfast. Is there any chance you saw Mr. 17’s clothes when you did that? Do you know where they might be?”

I have to press my lips together to keep from laughing out loud.

“Um, yes. I put them in the laundry basket and put the basket on the stairs leading up to his bedroom.”

My spouse is disbelieving. “Are you kidding?”

“Not even a little.”

The message is relayed to the child, and the missing clothes – in a bright blue basket – are, indeed, discovered on the middle of the bottom step, the one he had to walk on to get downstairs to look for his clothes. Through the line, I hear my child’s voice ring out, “Got ‘em!”

My spouse and I guffaw; my carpool buddy and I guffaw some more, and the call ends, seconds after it started. Now we’re on the highway, heading towards even more 15 and 17 year olds who could very well be, at this moment, running through their own homes in their underwear, desperately looking for the laundry that their parents put directly in front of them.

Or maybe it’s just my kid.