Today marked a momentous and bittersweet occasion. Today, I registered my oldest child for Kindergarten.
But registering your child for Kindergarten isn’t as easy as showing up. You need about four million documents that prove the child is yours and that you live within the school district you’re registering your child for. Of all of the required documents needed, the birth certificate is always the biggest stressor for me. Every year, for the last three years, I’ve needed my son’s birth certificate for something and every year I tear the house apart looking for it. This year was no different. I woke up this morning, expecting I’d find the birth certificate in my office because that’s the adult and logical place to store a birth certificate. It. Wasn’t. There.
I. Freaked. Out.
I tore through my house trying to remember where I last saw my son’s birth certificate. The first place I checked was my bedroom closet because that’s where I remembered finding it last year. It wasn’t there.
My search continued. I looked in the bathroom closet, the hallway closet, underneath my bed, underneath my kids’ beds, underneath the crib in the nursery. It wasn’t there. It also wasn’t under any of the sinks, inside of the refrigerator, crumpled inside of my purse, or inside of the chicken coop.
After checking the dryer’s lint trap, I gave up and went back to my office. And then, it happened. I found the birth certificate. It was in the craziest, most insane, illogical place. I found it inside of my filing cabinet in a folder labelled, “Birth Certificates.”
No wonder I couldn’t find it. That’s like trying to find your cell phone while you’re holding it or searching for your sunglasses when they’re on top of your head. Sigh. Oh well. The mystery was solved and my oldest baby is all set for Kindergarten.