A couple of weeks ago, I was playing my favorite weekend activity, Car Wash. My husband and kids wash the car, inside and out, while I hide in my office and surf the Internet for the latest on George Clooney and his Italian villa. Shrieking sounds caused me to sink further into my chair, hoping my husband would take care of the latest dramatics. My seven-year old burst into my office, “Mommy, I found your blue folder.” I had heard this before and knew it was too good to be true.

While visiting at Lake Arrowhead last winter, I had lost my one and only blue folder a.k.a. my life. After ripping apart our house, luggage and mini-van, I called the hotel to see if some kind and loving stranger had turned it in to Lost and Found. I left a detailed report-turquoise blue accordion file, 8 ½ by 5 ½ inches. An hour later, I got a message, “Ms. Fugate, we have located your blue folder. Give us a call back.”

I jumped up and down, screaming for joy. The blue folder was more than a missing object--it was a symbol of my ability to control the chaos. What can I say? I latch on to plastic storage containers, three ring binders and folders as if they are magic charms that will somehow end the incessant whining, bickering kids, and eternal mounds of laundry. I called the hotel back, giddy, “Thank you so much for finding my blue folder, it contained all of my daughter’s gift cards, receipts, important notes.”  

“Ma’am, I am sorry,” the concierge said, “It was a mistake, we did not find your folder.”

My heart sank as paranoia mixed into chaos. I became convinced that the hotel had suddenly ‘lost’ my folder, confiscating my daughter’s Limited Too gift cards and other items of import. I spoke to the manager, practically crying. But alas, there was no blue folder--only my mommy blues.

You’re taking this hard, aren’t you?” my husband asked.

I nodded in agreement. First, it was the blue folder. What would be next? My wallet, my job, my sanity?

My neighbor told me to whisper ‘blue folder’ into a cup and turn it upside down.  Someday the blue folder would return to me. I took an old sippy cup and did exactly as she said. Crazy, I know.

Days passed and I stopped wishing for some sippy cup magic. I calculated my gift card loss, got new prescriptions, and declared the important papers as unimportant. Then Car Wash day arrived. I followed my seven year old out to the garage and sure enough, there was my blue folder. My daughter had found it with her little hands, stuck underneath the lip of the side compartment.

My family watched as I thumbed through each section, touching each piece of paper as if it was the missing corner of the Declaration of Independence. We had a family moment of celebration--high fives and hugs--as everyone recognized that Mommy was back on track.

Later, I sat down with my folder and realized what an idiot I had been. The gift cards were valuable but the rest of the papers were barely worthy. I had turned a pile of paper into the Emperor’s new clothing. The time had come for me to accept that, despite whatever organizational system I have in place, the chaos will not end until my kids head off to college. At that point, I will probably feel so lonely that I will either adopt a dozen dogs and/or start begging for grandchildren.

The sippy cup, however, is still upside down. I’m frankly afraid to turn it over, just in case I lose it.