Kris turned forty-two today.
I would like to report that he spent the day surrounded by family, enjoying lunch, opening gifts, and celebrating another year of life.
Instead, I have to report that his memory apparently expired at midnight. Not gradually. Not over time. Not after years of aging. Immediately. Like a software update gone horribly wrong.

The morning started with the usual chaos. We were trying to get out the door for lunch and then suit shopping. Which sounds simple until you realize our family treats leaving the house like preparing for an overseas military deployment. Someone can’t find shoes. Someone else needs a drink. A child is suddenly starving despite refusing breakfast twenty minutes earlier. And naturally, I decided this was the perfect time to fold laundry because apparently I enjoy creating unnecessary obstacles for myself.

So there I am folding laundry. Harper is being wrangled into cooperation. Kris is standing near the front door. And Lynnlee is about to become an innocent victim of age-related confusion. “Kris says, ‘Hey Lynnlee, take off your shoes and go get my phone from the bed.’” Without hesitation, she accepts the mission. No questions asked. No concerns raised. Just complete confidence that she has been selected for an important operation. Off she goes. Barefoot. Searching for a missing phone.

Meanwhile, I’m listening to Kris tell me about texting Payton for his birthday. I make what I consider a perfectly reasonable joke. “You missed a great opportunity to send him a clown face instead of a happy birthday message.” Now for those unfamiliar with our family, sarcasm is one of my love languages. I wasn’t being mean. I was being supportive. There’s a difference. But after I said it, Kris got quiet. Really quiet. The kind of quiet that makes you wonder if maybe you’ve finally crossed a line. I thought perhaps my joke had landed poorly.

Maybe forty-two had made him sensitive, maybe birthday emotions were involved, maybe I should apologize.Then I looked at him. And I realized he wasn’t offended. He was confused. Deeply confused. Because at that exact moment, his brain was attempting to process a horrifying discovery.

The phone, the very phone Lynnlee had been sent to retrieve, the one that was supposedly missing, the one currently being searched for by a barefoot child, was the same phone he was actively texting on. The entire time.

The man had launched a search-and-rescue operation for a device he was holding in his own hand. Not in his pocket. Not sitting beside him. Not hidden under a blanket. In. His. Hand. The hand attached directly to the body searching for it. I don’t know exactly how long he stood there processing this information. Time seemed to stop. I watched the realization spread across his face like a storm cloud. I watched him mentally replay the previous sixty seconds. I watched him question every life decision that had brought him to this moment.

Then I started laughing. Not polite laughter. Not supportive-wife laughter. The kind of laughter that makes your stomach hurt and your eyes water. Because suddenly I wasn’t worried about Kris. I was worried about me. I turn forty-two later this year. If this is what happens, I need advance warning. I need preparation. I need a safety plan.Today it’s a phone, but tomorrow I’m sending search parties to locate my reading glasses while they’re sitting on my face, and by forty-five I might be filing missing person reports on myself.

Poor Lynnlee was still looking for the phone when we finally explained what happened. She looked at us the way children often look at adults. Like we’re the dumbest creatures God ever created. All I could think was…Fair.

We spend years teaching our children important life skills. Then one day they watch us search for objects we’re actively using. The older I get, the more I understand why kids eventually stop asking adults for advice. They’ve seen too much. So happy birthday, Kris. Forty-two looks great on you. You may have lost your memory before lunch, but at least you found your phone. Eventually