Logan spent 20 minutes yesterday afternoon searching for (and harumphing about!) his skateboarding helmet before he realized (read: I finally insisted that he sit down and calmly think about the last time he wore it!) that he'd left it at a friend's home the previous weekend.

Today, it was his baseball mitt.  His aggravating and noisy "hunts" always begin the same way.  With his majesty shouting throughout the house, "MOM!  Do you know where my _____ is?"  "My" being the key word in that question.

In his forgetful, fretful state, Logan, I guess, also can't remember that my answer is always the same:  "Where did you put it?"  And, like clockwork, I can see his annoyed half-frown, half-grimace -- even if he's not nearby.

After all the misplaced lunch boxes, backpacks, hoodies, swimsuits, books, gloves, hats, jackets, even bikes -- some never to be seen again -- does he still hold out hope that one day my response will be different?  One day, I'll present a golden key to a secret lost and found filled with his abandoned items or cultivate a newfound clairvoyance that enables me to retrace his every step like a video in reverse?

"Lor, where are my dark jeans?" my husband calls from upstairs.  Apparently, Logan isn't the only one keeping the faith.