Momnesia

Awful Mother, Redux

So, another thing that goes without saying is that as a parent, you will eventually lose your child for a short while. It will cause you cardiac arrhythmia, and you will think one of three things:
1) This child will be the death of me
2) I will be the death of this child
3) I am dead

In almost overwhelming numbers, mothers tend to fall into the first category. The second category is reserved for those mothers who take the blame for everything. The third category is reserved for those mothers who just can’t take it anymore.

I’m in the second category, and I hate it. Everything, I think, is my fault. The birthmark on her shoulder. The fact that I have to call her name 10 times before she hears me. The smashed index finger — oh, wait, that was me. Global warming. I’ve never had a lot of confidence in my mothering skills, but as Emmie gets older and displays at least a few bare moments of politeness, helpfulness and cheer, I have gained more confidence.

But then I lost her.

One moment she was trying on a pair of size 10 women’s linen peep-toe heels (what? Is that odd for a three-year-old?) in the shoe section at Target, the next she was gone. I mean it, people. I turned, put the shoebox I was holding back on the shelf, turned back, and SHAZAM! She was gone. Her pink flowered boots were still sitting there.

I spun in place. “Emmie?”
Nothing.
I trotted to end of the aisle and checked all directions. “Emmie?!”
I dashed to the other end of the aisle and did the same. “EMMIE?!”

I did a quick lap around the shoe section, dashed in to maternity, checked athletic wear and returned. A store associate stopped me.

“Can I help you?”
“Yes!” I was breathless. “My little girl. Three years old. Short blonde curly hair. Pink striped hoodie.”
“We’ll find her. What’s her name?”
“Emerson.” My voice shook. I could feel me about to lose my composure.
She patted my arm and smiled: “Happens all the time. Haven’t lost one yet.”

We took two different routes, each calling her name. I tried variants: pleading, teasing, demanding, threatening, saddened. The store associate mainly tried guilt and playfulness. Foolish woman. My child feels no guilt and this is playing to her.

Finally, a woman’s voice called with amusement, “I found a little girl.”
I dashed back to the same aisle I’d last seen her, but still all I saw were her boots. The woman gestured to a low shelf. There, wedged onto the second to bottom shelf, was a giggling three year old. How she managed to fit there, I’ll never know. But unless you crouched down, you’d never see her. The woman had been looking for a pair of shoes in her size.

“Emmie!” I gasped, and she slid off the shelf, laughing.
“Not good, Emmie!” I scolded her, near tears, and picked her up.

I was embarrassed, but the two ladies seemed not to question my ability to parent my own child. The store associate grinned and chirped, “I told you it would be okay. See you later!” while the lovely older elegant woman stood and watched us putting Emmie’s boots back on. She was dressed in such a way as to make me wonder what she was doing in Target, of all places. She was in designer duds, head to toe.

“Thank you so much, ma’am,” I said, genuinely grateful.
She threw back her gorgeous grey hair and laughed, “Oh, honey, there’s nothing easy about that age.”
Then she swooped out of the aisle as though she had wings.

I held Emmie while she patted my face.
“Don’ be sad, mama. Don’ cry.” She whispered intently.
“Please don’t ever hide from mommy like that. I would be so upset if I lost you,” I pleaded, smooching her all over her face. “I just missed you so much, Emmie.”
She nodded, sagely. “An’ den you cry like a little baby.”

Hmm... Why don't you go hide again while I check on the car?