Who Took My Charger?

A mom’s late-night hunt for her missing phone charger, all in the name of a GOOD NIGHT’S SLEEP!

I walk into my quiet house. I reach inside my leather bag and pull out a square white box. As I place it in the palm of my hand, I survey my surroundings suspiciously. I slowly reveal a smooth white coil after wrestling with the taped edges and stiff outer packaging. A tightly wound-up cord held together by the teeniest cardboard fastener stares back at me. I fearfully cover it, shielding it from potential eyes. Did anyone see it? Is anyone home? I break apart the cardboard and stretch out my new phone charger. It’s longer than most. I prefer the extra length to the standard size because I am worth the additional few inches. Can you blame me?

Some may call me crazy, but I can assure you, I am not. You have to understand that everyone in my house had their very own charging cord once upon a time. The significance of this one wire is not lost on me as I casually braid it through my fingers. It is not just the lifeline to our electronic devices but our actual tether to the outside world. Brand new cords are coveted in our home but also short-lived. It’s not long in a household of five before a weak link is exposed. A misplaced charger sets in motion the technological chaos we live with each day. We lend, beg, borrow, and ultimately steal back what we believe to be ours. No cord is ever safe, whether old, new, borrowed, or blue. As I caress my new cord, I vow once and for all to keep it safe from those around me and never take it for granted again. And so, my adventure begins.

I bury myself beneath a mountain of blankets, leaving my right arm uncovered to grab my phone. It may be 11 pm, but sleep doesn’t always come easy, and good old-fashioned internet scrolling is just what the doctor ordered. As I tap the screen to embark on my mindless journey, I see the single-digit percentage of life left on my phone. Five percent will barely get me five minutes on social media. I reach over to grab my charger to rectify this near-disastrous situation, only to be greeted with space. Sheer annoyance fills my body from head to toe. Who took my phone charger?

I all together bypass child number two’s room without a second thought. He is still awake, and the mere thought of conversing with a teen boy at this hour of the night about my charging cord is entirely unappealing to me.

I shift my gaze to the left and spot the shiny white cord breathing life into my husband’s phone, enabling it to play a Serial Killer podcast while he peacefully sleeps, and I shiver with fear. I walk around the bed to his nightstand and realize that the cord he is using is not the one I so desire. I am looking for my long cord that plugs into the outlet closest to my side of the bed, providing enough give for me to snuggle comfortably while at the same time rotting my brain with halfwitted tales. This cord won’t do.

Plan B is not an option because it involves going downstairs in the dark of the night to check the kitchen counter for my beautiful long cord. This course of action doesn’t work for me because, in all honesty, dragging my restless body down the flight of stairs seems quite the distance, and I am genuinely that lazy. Secondly, because my husband so kindly played that murdering podcast to unwind to, I now believe there’s someone downstairs waiting to kill me. But in all seriousness, I couldn’t have possibly left it down there. One of my sleeping darlings undoubtedly “borrowed” it.

Onto plan C I go. I gingerly walk down the hallway and glance at my three options. As I put one foot in front of the other, I pray to the podcast Gods above that the Killer below doesn’t hear my footsteps and ruin the high-quality downtime I so desperately need.

This search and rescue mission is looking dismal at best. I could put on my big girl pants and proceed down the stairs to check for my charging cord. It still seems like a trek, and the lazy part of me is not budging.

Child number one is sound asleep with his phone, various devices, and corresponding chargers safely plugged in for morning use. My new long cord may be nestled in that snarled mess, but there are too many wires to contend with, and I do not want him waking up while I work to detangle the situation.

I all together bypass child number two’s room without a second thought. He is still awake, and the mere thought of conversing with a teen boy at this hour of the night about my charging cord is entirely unappealing to me. The Serial Killer on the first floor would most likely hear our verbal exchange, messing up my grandiose late-night plan of scrolling my worries away.

I move to child number three’s room and view my youngest lad sleeping soundly. I speedily scan his bed for my beautiful long cord, willing to settle for his knock-off version of my beauty but instead spy his iPad face down. I checked its pulse only to discover its dead. It either died playing Dude Perfect videos on repeat while my son drifted off to sleep, or it never had the chance to be resurrected because there is no charger in sight. But wait. I spy the tail end of a cord beneath his pillow. I take a deep breath and then grab hold of its smoothness. I gently tug on it, being sure not to wake my sleeping boy. It’s white, so the chances of it belonging to me are strong. I slide my hand behind the mattress, carefully releasing the wire from the block plugged securely into the wall. I do not take the block because that would be downright stealing, and I am not a thief by any means. I only want what is rightfully mine or at least something comparable. I tiptoe back into the hallway, exhale, and examine the cord, only to find out that it is not my new long cord but a shorter version with zero potential of satisfying my needs.

My dreams of completing today’s crossword puzzle and stalking the Royals on social media slowly fade. I now have nothing to distract me from the imaginary slaughterer inside my head. Thanks, Serial Killer podcast. You’re the best, I mutter to myself.

As I mope back to the land of no sleep, I pause at the top of the staircase. This search and rescue mission is looking dismal at best. I could put on my big girl pants and proceed down the stairs to check for my charging cord. It still seems like a trek, and the lazy part of me is not budging. So with no viable options left, I do what any responsible adult would do when their phone is on the brink of death, and their imagination is frothing over with podcast Serial Killers. I lean over the railing, look fear in the eye, and whisper-shout down the stairs:

“Excuse me, Mr. Serial Killer. Would you mind tossing up my charger? It’s probably on the counter behind the empty lunchbox, to the right of the block of knives. Thanks, and please lock the door on your way out. Night!”

Kelly Fredericks is the creator of Dear Mr. Hemingway, LLC, a literary website for the everyday reader where she overshares her love for all things books and reading. Her writing is fun, witty, and accessible to everyone. She is happily married and a mom to three boys.