Stolen wallet makes for a bad week

My wallet got stolen last week.

It was stupid of me, I know. I was at the store picking up a birthday card for a friend while my son was at his gymnastics class. I only had a few minutes before I had to pick him up, and I was rushed.

I put the baby in her car seat after I left the store and got ready to drive away and realized I’d left my wallet in my shopping cart. I raced back into the store to collect it and found my grocery cart, but no billfold.

Already late to collect my son, I waited for about ten minutes hoping someone would turn it in, and then had to leave to get my three-year old.

After picking him up, I raced back to the store and waiting at the customer service counter for a while, futilely hoping someone would turn it in.

Two hours later, I reluctantly acknowledge it was gone and had to blink back tears as I began to cancel my credit cards and my debit card and tried to recollect everything that was missing..

I had absolutely no identification on me, and subsequently needed to go to DMV to get a driver’s license that afternoon.

There were so many things I hated about losing my wallet, but I think my driver’s license was number one.

There was a huge memory attached to that photo: it was taken the day I discovered I was pregnant with my daughter. I hadn’t as yet told anybody about my impending arrival when I got my new DMV photo taken, and I can honestly say I was glowing in the picture, with a secret smile in my eyes and the happiest face I’ve ever seen on any license photo. I was having a good hair day, too, and even had one nice person compare that picture with the face of a well-known supermodel.

Then again, that person was trying to sell me something so it might have been a slight exaggeration.

But nonetheless, I loved that darn picture.

My new photo has me with a somewhat tear-stained face, frizzy hair that I had been raking my fingers through and I can see a mascara trail down my cheeks and dark make-up circles under my eyes where I’d been rubbing them.

All in all, I think I could give Bozo the Clown a run for his money when it comes to my new photo.

Every few hours this week, it seems I remember something else that was in my wallet.

For the first time in my memory, I was pro-active in purchasing my tickets to the state fair and I had just gotten my three-day pass in the mail. I had immediately put it in my wallet for safekeeping, so I wouldn’t loose it.

It’s lost.

I’d also recently visited the ATM and taken out some cash for the state fair, eagerly anticipating the presents and souvenirs I would purchase with it. And the food.

Suffice it to say, I won’t be spending very much money at the fair this year, and will probably only be going one day instead of my originally planned three.

My biggest concern about the wallet was my military id, however. This is because all civilian military identification cards carry social security numbers on them.

I am terrified that someone is going to steal mine and my husband’s identity, ruin our credit, destroy our good names, force me for eternity to prove I am who I say I am, and eradicate any chance of my son gaining early acceptance to Harvard because of my forever suspicious background.

Then again, I should probably focus more on him being able to put his pants on the correct way before he starts preschool in a few weeks (remember: the zipper goes in the front).

As odd as it might sound, however, there were some good moments in the entire process of me trying to find myself again last week.

The dreaded DMV visit was extremely smooth, thanks in part to a wonderful woman behind the counter named Tammy. She empathized with my lost wallet story, telling me about the time hers was stolen and offering me some much needed and appreciated sympathy.

And the policeman who took my report, which I needed to get a new military id, was absolutely phenomenal.

Officer Steen was kind, friendly and, as we discovered, had gone to high school with my big brother. He took careful notes about what happened and was quite positive, even though we both knew the possibility of my wallet ever turning up again was almost nonexistent.

He also called me later that afternoon to inform me that he had taken the time to search all the dumpsters and trash cans near the store where my wallet disappeared. That was something I never even thought of doing, and I could not believe this officer took the time to do it.

With the million other things this local policeman had to do, he expended the time and effort to search in what was probably some pretty nasty areas in hopes he might be able to salvage something for me..

I really appreciated it, and after the day I’d had, it went a long ways towards reaffirming my faith in human nature.

Finally, my husband called from Iraq, cheerful and eager to hear how my week was going. I dreaded telling him, because the entire situation was just not something that would create a warm and fuzzy feeling for a deployed soldier.

But, I told him and he surprised me in that he truly didn’t seem to be that perturbed about what I considered a horrible ordeal. He stressed that everything that missing could be replaced, and the kids and I were what he cared about the most.

A wallet, in the larger scheme of things, is just an object, after all. He made me feel much better about the entire process, and e-mailed me multiple times over the next few days to let me know he was thinking about me.

So, I don’t feel quite as though it was the earth and sanity-shattering experience I originally thought it was.

Now, if only I could get a retake of my driver’s license photo.

Tiffany Horvath is the mother of two and the stepmother of one. Her husband, Drew, is deployed to Iraq. She writes every Sunday abut life at home for the wife of a deployed soldier.