I was listening to a woman yesterday describe the ordeal of losing her son in Disney World. She was a much better storyteller than I was; however, I will share my story anyway — it was just as traumatic for me.
When I was great big pregnant with my third child, we decided to go and get some Christmas shopping done. We left the house with our 5 1/2-year-old daughter and our 2-year-old son. Now, remember, I was huge. Big. Pregnant. We pulled up in front of a small local department store, unloaded our kids and the stroller, and headed in.
Many times when we went out as a family, we would each take charge of one of our kids. I happened to be holding our daughter's hand, and my husband was pushing the stroller our 2-year-old son was riding in. Since our son was the size of a 3-year-old and very well-behaved, we did not fasten the little straps on the stroller. So there we were, looking at toys and clothes and meandering through the store, when, all of a sudden, a few aisles over, I heard my husband begin to call our son's name. His voice with each shout-out became a little more frantic-sounding. I waddled as fast as my swollen feet would carry me--trying to get to the area where I could hear my husband's voice.
When I reached him, he said--he's crawled out of the stroller, and I can't find him anywhere. The panic that filled my mind and then sank into my heart is almost indescribable. My mouth could not work fast enough as I tried to scream (without sounding like a nut job) my son's name. Still--no little boy.
The store, upon hearing the commotion, locked down its doors, and the staff, along with us, began combing the dressing rooms.
I can't begin to describe the thoughts that were going through my head. Kidnapping, killing, mutilation, torture--my mind went crazy, and those were just a few of the crazy notions careening through my head. I could hear someone screaming and calling out his name, but I didn't even recognize it as my own voice. Desperate. That's how I felt. And helpless. Completely helpless. I was the mom! Where was my son?
I began to pray. I began to beg. I began to plead. Help me find my baby. We were all shouting his name. Where was he?
And then I heard it. A little giggle. I slowly walked back to where I thought the sound was coming from. And I looked inside the round rack of clothing, and there snuggled down right in the middle of that rack was my 2-year-old son. He smiled at me and said Boo. I began to cry, I pulled him out of that rack, and hugged him. I think the other moms standing nearby were wiping tears away, too. But not my husband. Nope, not him. When he assured everyone that all was well now, he put our little boy back into that stroller and quickly pushed him right back out to the car.
I can read my husband's expressions, and the one on his face wasn't good. I walked as fast as I could behind him, holding tight to my daughter's hand, saying — he was playing; he didn't know what he was doing; it's not his fault. I had to somehow get through to my husband that what our son did was not willful disobedience. He was just mimicking the games we played at home. I asked my husband to just sit in the car and cool down. I did not want my 2-year-old to be disciplined for something that really wasn't even his fault.
I sat there in the car next to my husband and noticed that his hands were shaking. He had been just as afraid as I had been. It had affected him, too; he just had a different way of expressing his emotions. As my little family sat in the car, all safe and sound, we tried to explain to both our children why we do not play hide-and-seek in stores.
Later that night, as we tucked them into bed, we were so thankful for the day's outcome. Yes, he was lost for a few horrific minutes. But then he found us.
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