In the wee hours last night our bedroom door banged open.

 

"I can't find Harmony." Benjamin apparently needed his teddy bear.

 

"Look in the car," John managed to mumble without coming fully awake. She was not, however, easily found, and Ben stomped around turning on lights in his quest. After a few minutes he gave up, thankfully without a fight. 

 

"Those robbers are stupid."

 

He seems bent on pinning blame on someone. It is not feasible that Harmony is waiting precisely where he left her, a place he cannot remember. Surely there is a band of dastardly dudes who snuck into our house under the cloak of night and hid his favorite toy, uninterested in trifles like cash or computers. 

 

Benjamin provides a mirror for me of my own less than logical thinking. The car inspection is expired and the officer who stopped my daughter last week frowned in disapproval. She called in a frenzy, having been given a warning and five days to rectify it. But she cannot get it inspected without the registration which apparently was also filched by the robbers. I leap to blame John, who was supposed to be on top of those automotive details. In fact I am investing more emotional oomph in articulating his failings than in finding the paperwork, which is most likely minding its own business in a pile somewhere.