The name above the title

Two months into this blogography, I'm rethinking the name we arbitrarily slapped above our (gorgeous, thanks to Sugar) masthead: Franklin5. Concise? To be sure. Descriptive? Indeedy. Evocative of, say, The Jackson Five? Overlooking the fact that we are woefully deficient in both singing and dancing skills... well, why the heck not.

But I was struck tonight by what seems to be a running theme in this journal to date, and so I offer an alternate nom de plume: Things Spencer Has Misplaced.

If you're just joining us, here's the list so far:
1. Himself
2. My contact case
3. An unspecified number of small toys and puzzle pieces, many of them now residing at the city dump
4. Fifty-seven rolls of toilet paper, give or take a few
5. Quite possibly, the last shreds of my sanity
And, this evening,
6. My keys

The night began on an upbeat note. I garnered an invite from Jen to join her and funny friend Janet for dinner at Dream Cafe. Trey's in the Sunshine State, his second business trip in three days, so I was thrilled to have a social outing for the muppers and myself.

It had been a rainy day, so the kiddos had to content themselves with the indoor playground (i.e., the tables, chairs and fully stocked condiment cart) while the super-cool playscape taunted them from the other side of the glass. I was secretly happy with this set-up, because the four walls provided a nice barrier between Spencer and the parking lot. Still, he made do by periodically roaming out of sight and then returning to our table, often bearing souvenirs from other parts of the restaurant.

A good meal. A nice chat with fellow moms. Lots of screeching and running 'round from my three, but I'm convinced that minute amounts of food were actually ingested. Even the service seemed slightly zippier than usual. At last, it was time to say good-bye. A parade of moms and slap-happy children marched toward the door as I brought up the rear, idly digging for my keys en route.

No keys in the top of the diaper bag, but no worries: I could hear jingling at the bottom of the bag. I pawed through the contents, finally unearthing a jingly year-old baby toy, but no keys. Checked my purse; no dice. Retraced my path from the table, but found nothing keylike in the vicinity.

Jen and Janet, both ready to roll, were waiting for me outside. Kidlets, unleashed at last, were gleefully climbing the rain-slick playscape and splashing in mud puddles. "I'm so sorry," I said to J and J. "I can't quite find my keys."

Well. As my fabulous friend Karen said last weekend: if you want something done, ask a mother. J and J threw themselves into the task at hand, helping me tear through my bags, again, retracing my steps, again, and suggesting dozens of potential hiding places for errant keys. Sadly, we turned up nothing. I consulted our waiter, who pledged sympathy and support.

Just as sweet-cheeks baby Greta let Janet know in no uncertain terms that it was time for them to go, I reached the conclusion that the keys must be locked inside my car. Nevermind the statistical improbability of this, or the fact that I couldn't see inside the darkened Mommywagon to confirm their whereabouts; desperation won out and I decided to call a locksmith. Our waiter brought me the yellow pages as Jen tried to find the customer service number for needy Volvo types.

I was racing through a rather lengthy list of whatifs when our waiter, a prize of a human being who deserves 35 percent tips from this day forward, burst through the front door with a triumphant smile and yes, my keys. Which had been stashed on a little shelf behind the cash register, right at Spencer-level. But of course.

And of course, once we were home, that little scamp tucked into me when I picked him up to say good-night. Nestled his wild-with-curls head into the hollow of my neck, pulled his knees up against my chest and squeezed me with his arms for one long moment... then peeled himself away, grabbed my face with two pudgy hands, and smacked a big wet kiss on my lips.

So (you knew this was coming), I suppose that in order to be fair and balanced, I'd really have to subtitle the blog Things Spencer Has Discovered. Number one on the list: A cavernous space in my heart, large enough to hold a galaxy, filled to the brink with neverending unconditional love for this mischievous sweetheart with twinkling eyes and joie de vivre.

And then I'd need another subtitle to describe the equally cavernous and incredible heart spaces dedicated to his siblings, amazing creatures both. Not to mention their cute father, who kick-started this whole shebang.

Franklin5 it is, then.