My family is consistently losing things. Tonight was a perfect example.

4:05 – Jonathan (Brother One) returns from middle school. My mother warns, “You have until 5:30. At that point in time, we are leaving for your baseball game, which is at 7 in Oviedo.” Jonathan responds with a “Yep, whatever,” as he beelines for the pantry.

4:45 – My mom reiterates while Jono messes around on the computer. “Jono, not kidding, we’re leaving at 5:30 and you’d better be ready.” He mumbles a response, and continues to listen to rap.

5:10 – “TWENTY MINUTES UNTIL WE’RE LEAVING! Make sure you’re ready!” My brother replies, “God, Mom, just chill. I’ll be ready.”

5:20 – “TEN MINUTES, JONATHAN! ARE YOU GOING TO BE READY OR WHAT?!” Jono continues to ‘do homework’/IM his crush on the computer, not even bothering to respond.

5:27 – Jono extracts himself from the couch and begins to hunt for his uniform, the full version of which contains sliders, socks, belt, cleats, a jockstrap (called a ‘cup’ in our house), pants, shirt, and a hat. “Um, mom, have you seen my uniform?” he calls from the laundry room, unruffled. My mom responds by rolling her eyes and threatening, “You’d better be ready.”

5:28 – “Found it!”

5:28:30 – “MO-OM! HAVE YOU SEEN MY CUP?!” A hint of panic creeps into his voice.

5:29 – My mom calls for the general assembly. “Everyone look for Jono’s cup! Go!” I don’t move from my spot where I’m immersed in Gavin DeGraw/Facebook/Algebra homework. Jeremy (Brother Two) continues to play Wii. Jonathan scurries by a few time, dressed in underwear, socks, and nothing else.

5:30 – “Jono, it’s 5:30. Are you ready?!” This is now full-out hollering. He yells back, “NO, I CAN’T FIND MY CUP!” Desperate yet still not freaking out, he tears his room apart while simultaneously considering how much it would hurt to wear Jeremy’s.

5:30:04 – “FOUND IT!” He pulls everything on, grabs a Gatorade, and dashes out the door. Jeremy and I are unfazed. Mom’s waiting in the car. Jonathan is only slightly concerned.

Case in point.

Example number two of the night involves the other brother.

5:45 – I yell to him. “Jero, Oma’s coming to get you at 6:15. Be ready, okay?” The response is the sound of a Mario guy losing a life. “Sis-ssyyyyyyyyy!” Clearly, I have distracted him by reminding him that he has CubScouts tonight.

5:55 – “Jeremy, not kidding, you need to go get your class B on.” He reluctantly leaves the television, wanders into his room, and emerges wearing a PACK 529 shirt and one navy sock. I shrug.

6:05 – I come to check on him. He’s glued to the television screen. I stand in front of him (I put my hands on my hips in a classic older-sister-is-annoyed-gesture, in hopes that he’ll pick up on the body language. He doesn’t.) and ask him, “Do you plan on putting on shoes and socks?” He looks at me and replies with a straight face: “Yes. Now MOVE.” I exit.

6:14 – “Jero! Oma’s supposed to be here in one minute!” He turns the volume on the TV up.

6:15 – Oma pulls into the driveway. I yell, “JEREMY! OMA’S HERE, GO OUT!” He comes in, looking a bit dazed, as if his brain cells have evaporated from watching slapstick anime, with one navy sock on and another in his hand. No shoes. “Get ready!” I urge.

6:16 – He comes out of his room, his expression reading: I am missing something very important. He hurries by me to the garage, where I hear exasperated sounds. They mix with the constant honking coming from our driveway. It’s an almost musical effect.

6:17 – “SISSY!” comes from the garage, and I walk out. “My shoes are in mom’s car.” (The car, that is now in Oviedo with Jonathan and his jockstrap.) “Cool.” I reply.

6:18 – Mom is now on the phone. “Find him shoes!” We check everywhere. There are no normal shoes. I send him out to the van in flipflops.

6:18:30 – He returns. He’s not allowed to wear flipflops to Scouts. Drat. Foiled.

6:19 – He suggests wearing his cleats, penny loafers, and Jono’s shoes, in that order. They are shot down. By me.

6:20 – I venture into the jungle that is the 8-year-old’s room, and my gaze alights on a new pair of shoes sitting by a box of Legos. “Success!” I yell, and we rush out to the car, and tie them on.

We lose many important items, ranging from jockstraps to baseball bags to neckerchiefs to slides (we own at least half a dozen) to keys to debit cards to homework to backpacks to cellphones. But we usually find them.

What we don’t ever find, however, is our sanity.

That’s permanently missing.