I used to joke that I spent twenty-seven hours a day in this house and that you couldn't hide anything from me.
While I now work outside the house eight of those twenty-seven hours, you still can't get anything past me here. I know every inch of this house. Every sound, every creak and every hiding spot.
Want to know where your white and black striped lucky soccer sock is? It's in the pile of mismatched socks in the rickety old basket on the top shelf of the linen closet.
Where is that broken Indiana Jones Lego figurine who's missing the hat and one leg? He's under your captains bed. No, not in the drawer. You have to squeeze between your bed and the wall and make your way into the dirty underbelly of that bed. He's there, next to that empty bag of marshmallows you think I don't know about.
What was that sound at 3am? The backwash of our water softener.
Who took your blue sweater? I saw it in Kristyn's backpack, so it must be her.
Why won't the tub drain? There's a Lego Indiana Jones leg stuck in there.
Who ate all the marshmallows? Alex. Look under his bed.
I can tell you if the front door or back door just slammed. Which sliding door was opened. Which toilet just flushed.
You just can't get anything past me. Even if I'm not here, I'll find out.