That Story...

You know the story. The one that parents always have to tell. The one time that Little So & So was no where to be found... Well, today it's my story. And it was my little So & So.

If you know my son at all, you will not be in the least surprised. I certainly am not. If you have three children and they are the way that my children are... it's not that I expect bad things to happen, I don't, it's just that there are certain inevitabilities that you know are bound to happen sooner or later. Like the lost tooth. Except it's still in the head of the child and it's the whole child that's missing.

And this is me being optimistic and feeling prepared planning such a little trip down to the Boston Children's Museum. My mom had the day off and thought it would be fun to come along with me and the kids. It's practically a rite of passage around here. If you didn't grow up going to the Children's Museum, then you might as well have lived in a cave somewhere. It's just THE THING to do as a child. We've been before, of course, but I wanted to take them again as something to do this summer because it's been so hot. So I plan and pack a bag and go over how it's going to go in my head and oh boy, my version of it is so very lovely. It has kids playing nicely together blowing bubbles and helping one another climb the hanging maze and skipping hand in hand to the construction room as I push the little one along behind. Well, maybe not that perfect, but I thought it would go smoothly and they would play and have fun and, most importantly, be drained of energy and sleep like logs until 8am the next morning. Mommy has a dream!

Not so. We'd been there approximately ten minutes. Enough time to have our hands stamped, the kids rapidly climb the maze and come back down and get to the power seats. This is where my little boy did something I didn't quite catch to my eldest girl that made her very upset and whine about her thumb. Attending to the non-existent wound and attempting to distract from said wound, I see my son out of the corner of my eye. A moment later, he isn't there. Not a big deal. He does this. So I walk around the play area. Don't see him. Then I start calling his name. No answer. I walk slightly faster. I call a little louder. Nothing. Just other happy children and capable parents who can seem to control and keep their children in eye sight. And this is when it happens.

This is when that out of body things happens. The moment where you are in your head and you can hear your thoughts trying to calm you down where they say, "You are over-reacting. He IS here and you just can't see him. This will all play out just fine. You'll see, but this is That Story, so you are going to flip out, but all will be well." And you hear this in your head, but as you are frantically darting about and bumping into people and calling out your child's name as your heart starts to threaten to choke you to death, you see yourself in a police station trying to make sure that you remember every curve of your child's skin and every freckle and the very shade of every thread of clothing he is wearing and you, of course, flip out.

As I'm frantically calling, one of the museum attendant girls calmly walks over and asks if I'm looking for someone. No, I just love making a spectacle of myself in public running back and forth calling out various names to see who comes running. I explain I can't find my son, where we were and what he's wearing and then another girl comes and whips out the walkie talkie. Oh My Good Gracious Merciful God Almighty in Heaven. This is equally embarrassing and flat out terrifying. So, in the eighteen seconds it takes for her to put in the call concerning my son. I am basically walking away still calling his name, because we are obviously wasting precious time while I stand here chatting with you, I could be screaming his name on the first floor again so that everyone who walks in can get in on my drama and have a story of their own to chuckle over at home over their dinners about the crazy mother at the museum.

By the time I come around to the front of the maze, I see my mother is walking over with him and had found him in an adjoining play room. This is when I break into that movie run when the long lost child is reunited with his mother. I scoop him up and break down into sobs. Does he hug me back? Doesn't he know how lost he was? No and no. He starts hitting me and pulling away to be put down screaming that he was playing and wants to play. Awesome.

Instantly I'm thinking, "Great! Now these people think I put on this whole ruse so I could kidnap a child because what kid what NOT be happy to see his mother when he's been so lost?!" He wasn't lost. He knew where he was. He wanted to play. I put him down, hold his hand -won't be letting go any time soon- and bring him aside and attempt to explain to him what happened. As I'm crying, he starts to get visibly upset. Not because he understands what I'm going through. He wants to play. I've disrupted his playing. Ok. What else can I do? I'm not angry, just not happy. I know what I told myself when it all began to play out. All mothers do this. This is what happens when That Story occurs. This was my setting and my characters and my children and my life. And now I'm drained.

So, I pull myself together the best I can after the longest three minutes that aged me nine years and we move along.

This was That Story.