Of School-Aged Kids and Lost Causes

I thought tonight would be one of the best nights of my entire life!

My son starts Kindergarten tomorrow.

This is the day I have been waiting for since we decided to have children nine years ago. I knew that someday, someday they would be school-aged.

Ah...school-aged. Those words are like music to my ears. They are the sweetest sounds known to woman.

When they were newborn babies screaming in their cribs I consoled myself with the fact that someday, someday they would be spending eight hours a day at school. Someday they could pee on their own. Someday they could wipe their own butts. Someday they could pour their own damned cereal!

That day is here.

This is better than the day I retired the diaper bag.

I planned to spend this evening celebrating. I was picturing myself curled up with a pint of mint chocolate chip ice cream and a Harry potter tome. But that is not to be.

Instead I am ready to tear my hair out!

I have lost my daughter's birth certificate. I need it to sign her up for soccer and the deadline is Wednesday. It takes four freaking weeks to order a replacement. (What the fuck is up with that?)

It's loss plays into every self-doubting thought I have in my head. It's loss plays into every insecurity I harbor about myself. It's loss is driving me insane!

Tonight instead of celebrating the fact that I managed to survive the preschool years I will be scouring this complete mess of a house for one tiny slip of paper.

If only Saint Anthony, the patron saint of lost things, took bribes. Or traded favors. Or accepted blow jobs!

I'd do anything to find that thrice-damned document.

UPDATE: Found it! Whew. How did I find it? By getting on my knees. That Saint Anthony is a shooter.