Everyone knows that socks disappear. You can fight it, and for a while I did. I found it an affront to my ideals of frugality and housekeeping. Eventually, I realized that sock loss is not a reflection on me personally, but the result of theft by the sock gnome. What a relief.
However, it didn't end with socks. The gnome moved on to pillowcases. At first, it was one embroidered pillowcase. Not one I embroidered by hand, but a machine embroidered one that came with our sheets. Of course, this wasn’t just any sheet set. This set was a gift. The uber expensive kind made of long cotton fibers with thread counts in the thousands. The kind of fabric that when your face touches the pillowcase and is nestled by cloud of fabric perfection, you’re sure your wrinkles will disappear over night. At any rate, when that pillowcase disappeared, I dug one out of the linen cupboard and gave it to Calvin. (He looks great with wrinkles.)
If the pillowcase theft had ended there, I would’ve let things be. But it didn’t. A plaid flannel case from our winter sheets turned up missing. I assumed it would show up. After all, we have six people folding laundry, so things get mixed up. Some of it purposely. I’ve heard one son yell at another, “Haha, not funny. Come and get this bra thing and put it in the right bedroom.”
But then, came the final affront. Two pillowcases disappeared in the same day. One was plaid flannel and the other a gorgeous hand-embroidered one. I’d put them in the washer. I did not, however, take them out of the dryer—some minion did. And the minion disavowed all knowledge of them.
This called for war. I scoured the house looking for them. I moved furniture. I checked dresser drawers. I hunted through linen cupboards and bathroom cabinets. I checked behind and under the washer and dryer. I interrogated each and every member of the Keller family. All to no avail. Though Ariel suggested that I’m the real culprit. I have a history of sleep walking, and she decided that I’m so stressed about the pillowcases that I get up during the night and hide them. But that I can’t remember in the morning. I pondered that cheeky suggestion for half a second, pronounced it, “Rubbish.”