The Gloves That Would Not Die

Glove weather started around the middle of November this year. Sure, there were occasional days before then that it was nice to have a little extra warmth for the fingers, but it wasn’t a necessity until closer to Thanksgiving. For me, it was easy. I just reached into the pockets of my winter coat and pulled out the same gloves I’ve been wearing for the last five years. For Ellie it was a much more challenging task.

Glove weather started around the middle of November this year. Sure, there were occasional days before then that it was nice to have a little extra warmth for the fingers, but it wasn’t a necessity until closer to Thanksgiving. For me, it was easy. I just reached into the pockets of my winter coat and pulled out the same gloves I’ve been wearing for the last five years. For Ellie it was a much more challenging task.

First we checked her pockets, then we checked inside her hat and near her scarf. No gloves. On a shelf in her closet we located one black and purple striped glove. A thorough search through the mess on the floor of the closet finally yielded the match and life was grand. At least for a while.

A few weeks later we once again found ourselves searching for the missing gloves. We looked in her pockets, emptied her backpack and ransacked her closet to no avail. She checked the car, her school and her locker at the park district. Still no gloves. With a reprimand for misplacing them I headed off to Target.

I bought two pairs just in case. One was blue and the other purple. Since her coat was blue we decided to start with those and life was good again. For a couple weeks.

Picking her up on a Monday evening after she’d spent the weekend at her father’s I saw that she was wearing a pair of black gloves that were much too large for her tiny hands. These gloves had been lent to her by her Nonny because when her father had picked her up on Friday she only had one blue glove. With a sigh of frustration I handed over the purple gloves and explained that it is very important to put one’s gloves into one’s pockets when not wearing them. Once again the world was beautiful.

Our serenity was shattered within another two week period. Extreme hyperactivity was the cause this time, since the purple glove disappeared after she had been goofing around in her seat with the car door open while at the grocery store. Pushed to my limit that evening and about to explode I told her that if the missing glove was not found she would not be getting another pair since I couldn’t afford to support her careless behavior. I stormed into the garage and began to dig through the back seat of the car. Down through old ATM reciepts, church programs, Sunday School verse cards and old school art projects I crawled. Eventually I reached the floor of the car and in desperation began digging under the front seats. Finally my fingers touched on something soft and hoping against hope that it was not just something which wasn’t revolting but that it might be the illusive glove I pulled it into the light.

Hallelujah! It was a glove. A beautiful glove. A purple glove. Wait, there was purple but there was also black. Stripes. Incredulously I reached again under the seat and fished out a second striped glove. Not the prize I had been hoping for, but definitely worth the effort. Reigning in my annoyance I presented Ellie with her old gloves and presented her with idle threats should she lose them again. Happiness reigned over our home.

Our joy was shattered much too soon when once again the gloves disappeared. No one knew how or where, just that they were gone. It was now time for intervention. Explanations had not worked, threats were not effective. Now was the time for yelling and guilt. Still, there had to be a better way. Reinforcements were brought in. Ellie’s father was drafted to pull out his stash of gloves and assigned the task of cutting yarn to sew them together. They would be run through her coats sleeves and dangle from her wrists, a constant reminder that she was not responsible enough to care for her gloves. That she needed to be coddled like a toddler. This surely would teach her.

In the meantime her hands had to be warmed so while we waited for the new gloves we put together the old purple and blue to create a mismatched pair. Ellie explained to her friends, almost proudly, that she was too careless and that was why her gloves were different. I began to fear that she would never understand, but at the same time a quiet calm descended on us.

The requested gloves from Ellie’s father never materialized. Perhaps it was my fault for not nagging, perhaps it was his for forgetting. We’ll never know. Maybe it doesn’t matter.

What does matter is that it snowed this weekend. Heavily. In fact it is still snowing. This morning Ellie pulled out her snow boots as she prepared to head off to her bus stop. I was drying my hair when I heard her exclaim. Poking my head into her room I saw her proudly holding her purple and black striped gloves in the air. They were, and apparently had been, shoved inside her boots the whole time.

I stifled my laughter and sent her off to become educated in the ways of the world, and possibly in the care and storage of gloves. When I pick her up today it is likely that the gloves will be shoved in her hat, hanging out of a pocket of her back pack or even lying on the floor in the locker room, but for now life is perfect. The gloves will certainly disappear again but I’m no longer concerned. This is just one of my daughter’s quirks and I love her for it. Besides, now I know that these gloves, like a well-trained dog, will always find their way home to us.