We’re in a mega-bookstore and I’m scanning for new books while my son is playing at the train table. I can see his turquoise t-shirt over the display of board books. Crouching down, I grab a paperback, and as I stand up again, do an auto-glance at the train table. I don’t see a blue shirt. I drop the book and walk the ten paces over to the table, but Lucas is not there.
“Lucas!” I call as I walk through the nearby aisles. “Lucas!” I yell, too loudly for a bookstore, but I don’t care. I can’t silence the ugly thoughts. It would only take a second for someone to lure my three-year-old boy away. I picture some dirty, bearded man with a lollipop and a singsong voice. Shaking my head, I run to the Starbucks, the bathroom, and the main aisle, yelling his name. My heart hurts from racing so fast. I run to the front - I will make them lock down the store. Then I see him rounding the corner, holding an employee’s hand. I breathe finally and pull him into a tight squeeze while thanking the woman profusely.
When I finally let go, we settle at the train table. I plunk myself on a chair inches from the table, barely blinking for fear of losing sight of him again. Another mother is watching us and I want to say, “This really hasn’t happened before!”
I whisper, “I was so scared when I couldn’t find you." It is the understatement of the year. He looks up with big eyes, dropping the toy train, “I was so scared too when I couldn’t find you.” I praise him for asking for help and drill him on why he never called my name.
“If you can’t find Mommy, what do you do?” I prompt.
”I say, ‘Mommy! Mommy’ really loud,” he answers.
I repeat this role play over and over until I feel better. Then I own my mistake.
As I hug him for the tenth time, he whines, “Mommy? My tummy hurts." I know what he means - I feel nauseous too. "Maybe we should get a treat,” he says. I don’t argue.
We order donuts and split an iced tea at Starbucks. As he munches, I tell him, “When you were a baby, Mommy used to take you here. You would be asleep in the baby carrier, snug on my chest.” He takes a long drink, then climbs off his chair and crawls into my lap. “I’m your little baby,” he announces, closing his eyes, and taking position in my arms. I pull him close, rocking him, wishing I could secure him to me the way I did when he was an infant. He snuggles into me, presumably wishing the same thing.
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