Recently I commiserated with the Maker over his lost wallet, which housed his carefully hoarded $16. That’s a veritable fortune in seven-year-old-land. We had been explaining the concept of our Dad Bank, where the Husband keeps track of the boys’ money for them — and pays them interest on their deposits — in a simple checking account kind of database we have on the family computer. The Maker had been too excited about having actual dollar bills to surrender any of his loot to the Dad Bank, and so was trying to keep up with his money by transferring it endlessly from vest to pocket to private shelf in room, to Mom, and so on. We warned him he might lose it, given that he was prone to take it out at friends’ houses then forget to put it back in his pocket.
Grandparents visited, birthdays passed, and the dollars accumulated. And the inevitable happened. He came to me tearfully to announce it, and I hugged and commiserated without getting preachy. It was heartwrenching to see him dragging about, miserable.
Then today the Husband discovered the lost money in a forgotten-for-a-few-weeks, finally-found-and-deposited-in-laundry pair of the Maker’s pants. It was a joyous reunion and I feel ridiculously happy for him.