Last week, terror peeked into every
local parents' hearts as the breaking news team reported a
two-year-old boy as missing. His father had been doing
yard work when he discovered his child missing. The local police
were called in and they began a canvas of the neighborhood. No foul
play was suspected, but it wasn't dismissed as a possibility either.
Darkness did settle, and I found myself
becoming anxious as I checked the online reports for the missing boy
and made my own children practice their “library voices” so I
could hear every single report as it happened.
Shortly after nine that night, the
child's mother got a phone call. It wasn't a ransom call. It wasn't
the sad, heartbreaking news many were beginning to fear was eminent.
It was, however, the day care. They called, not to offer support or
comfort. They called, instead, to tell her to come pick up her kid.
I'll say it again: The missing boy was
at his day care facility. He'd been there – wait for it – all
day.
Apparently, the boy's father – who had just that very
afternoon reported his son missing – had forgotten that he had,
indeed, dropped his own son off at day care earlier in the day. I wonder what kind of "yard work" this daddy had been tackling.
I'll be honest. I laughed when I heard
the news. I laughed out of relief that the child had been found and
was safe. I laughed that the ending was so blissfully happy.
Mostly, though, I laughed because, there but for the grace of God, go
I.
As my laughter turned to giggles, I
really felt the need to reach out to the dad, who was surely feeling
a bizarre mix of relief, embarrassment and humiliation. If I'd had
his number or his email or even his Facebook page, I'd have said,
“Dude. Better you than me."
I have driven from my house to Hellmart
(about five miles away at the time) with the minivan side door
completely open. I have raced one daughter to school while
accidentally forgetting about the other daughter at home – who was,
by the way, sick. I have forgotten to pack lunches and on rare
occasions, I have double packed lunches. I have driven through
McGaggles and ordered my food, paid for my food and accepted my food
as two very disgruntled daughters shot daggers at me with their eyes
because I've forgotten that maybe they might be hungry too.
I've never actually reported one
missing (yet) when she was right where she was supposed to be. But,
as I state in my Mother-Of-The-Year platform: There's a first time
for everything.
I am glad that the small boy was found
safe and sound. I am happy that I didn't hear about the father's
wife beating him within an inch of his life. And, as stated before,
I'm glad it wasn't me.
It's a child's worst nightmare: A
ding-bat parent.
