Last week, my ten-year-old daughter rode with me to get her brother a new birth certificate. I have no idea where the original is. Out of seven kids, I’ve never lost a birth certificate. My only thought is that we used it for football registration when he still played youth football, and somehow it ended up in the wrong place.
But I spent weeks searching through everything and I couldn’t find it to save my life. Ironically, the missing document belongs to Tucker. And he’s the one child who needs everything to be ordered perfectly.
I remember when I was like that. All my paperwork was neatly filed and there were never dust bunnies under the couch. I’d say somewhere around 2003, my orderly nature started to crash and burn, exactly when Tucker was born. But it didn’t completely crash and burn until I added four more babies to the mix. Read the rest of this entry