Where is the Pink?
"Papa, where is the pink?" "What do you mean, darling?" "The pink crayon. There's no pink." "Here, let me look." And, indeed, as I burrow through a Ziploc full of crayons from all walks of life, I slowly come to the realization that there are no pink crayons. This is impossible. My children get refills of crayons regularly; those boxes of thirty-two or sixty-four, or the crappy packets of three given to us by restaurant hostesses. Doesn't matter their origin, they all go into the Ziploc, because crayon boxes under my children's gripping hands crumple and rip almost immediately, rendering them useless. "I have no idea where the pink is? Wait a minute, are you hording them?" "No, Papa. We're out of pink! We need more pink!!" "Okay, don't freak out. Papa, will get you some pink." But where did those crayons go? Are they off somewhere with the missing pair of house keys? Gallivanting with my Grumpy ba...