Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

Now You See Him

I lost Elliot for 20 minutes at a theme park a few weeks ago. (20 minutes, a whole sitcom, minus commercials.)

It felt unreal. I have no idea, and no one else has any idea, where my barely-4-year-old is. He’s just loose in the world. Maybe striking out West? Getting married? Who can say? Because I don’t know where he is or what he’s doing.

What happened was… We took the boys to my hometown theme park, King’s Island. Damon and cousin Colleen took off to hit those rides that make me anxious just to watch. I took off with the boys for Snoopy Land, which is more their speed and mine. I hit a frustration wall with their relative paces —  I have one lagger (Alden moves at about 1 agonizing mph) and one dasher (Elliot’s stuck in fifth gear. Is fifth a gear?) and finally decided to put them both under stroller arrest. I parked them in a cafe and, as I shifted purses and jackets off the stroller, Elliot turned and walked out. At least I assume that’s what happened. I looked up and he was gone.

My personal phases of a lost preschooler:

1. Aggravation. This is the first two or three minutes, where I’m still assuming that Elliot is under a table, behind a plant or otherwise within reach and I will find him momentarily. Along with being a runner, he is a hider, so this isn’t unfamiliar territory.

2. Dawning Anxiety. He really doesn’t seem to be in the cafe. This is when I parked Alden with my mom and another cousin, and started jogging up and down the walkways near the cafe. Surely. SURELY he is nearby. Nope.

3. Houston, we have a problem. This is when I acknowledge to myself that he is lost. I call Damon and get voice mail. He’s probably strapped into some crazy ride and likely can’t hear his phone ringing. I leave him a 10-second rundown and tell myself that by the time he calls back I will be able to answer with, “I’ve got him.” I start to increase the range of my search while trying to make sure I’m not missing a possibility right under my nose. It’s not like the pathways are linear, so I’m frustratingly aware that at any moment he could be within sight — behind me.

4. Time to Get Serious. Roughly 10 minutes have gone by. This was the part where I have to make the decision to stop looking.  I need to go get help. I know that he could be moving farther away or getting into more trouble with each minute that passes. One person searching for him is not enough. I go find a park employee and ask where the lost children office is. What I’m doing now is a little faster than a jog as I head over to file a report. When I start laying out the story I’m waiting for the woman behind the desk to tell me that this happens all the time. She doesn’t. She’s a nice woman who seems to be filling in. She hunts and pecks on the keyboard and has to check several times to make sure she’s “doing this right.” I do not grab her by the lapels and shake her.

A note on kidnappers: Of the various concerns pinging on my radar, this one hardly registered. Statistically, it’s just so unlikely. Even at my most concerned, I was well aware that Elli was in more danger on the highway to the theme park than he was at risk of some nut case grabbing him. What I was getting more concerned about by the minutes is that he would find his way into a dangerous area and be exposed to something like a ride mechanism or power sources. I’d already hauled his heinie out once as he tried to shimmy under a fence that very day. I was also mentally reviewing all the parts of the park I’d seen for fountains, lakes and ponds. I also hoped that he wasn’t too scared, wherever he was. But I also kind of hoped he was very scared, scared enough to remember next time he thought about heading out.

5. This Can’t Be Happening Land. Damon calls as I’m finishing giving the woman a description of Elliot. I pick up, aware that she’s not going to actually hit “enter” on this sucker until I answer all her questions. It goes like this:

Damon: Hey! I just rode the…

Jillian: Stop. Elliot is missing. I need your help. Come back.

Damon: What?? I can’t hear you! Did you say something about Elliot?

Jillian: He’s missing. Come back.

Damon: Who? What? There are a ton of people around me, I can’t…

Jillian: I can’t talk right now. Call my mom. </phone call>

I wrap up with the woman and she says, “Okay, the security guys are on their way. You can wait right here for them and…” I’m getting into the groove of interrupting people. I say, “You have my cell number. I’m going to look some more. Your security guys can call me when they get here.” We’re at about 15 minutes.

6. The Most Likely Thing Happens. I start to circle around the park again, each loop a little bigger than the last. I push back firmly on terribly thoughts like, “What if you have to leave here tonight without him?” And then. There he is. Walking down a pathway with a park worker carrying a broom and dustpan. I can see that they’re chatting. Elliot looks totally unconcerned. As I pull up next to them, Elliot looks over and says, “Mommy, I was looking all over for you.” He’s peevish. The guy (I’m sorry I didn’t get your name, nice guy!) tells me he saw Elli loitering outside a pretzel stand (which I’d checked, because he HAD been asking for a pretzel) and was bringing him over to the lost kid office.

7 Denouement. I called around that all is well. We all took several deep breaths. The lady called my to tell me the security guys had arrived and I was able to answer, “I’ve got him.” We bought a round of ice cream cones. Then we went back to riding rides, because that seemed like a better choice than letting this ruin our day.

What I learned from this: Whenever I take Elliot out in a crowd I write my cell number on his arm with a Sharpie. Since it’s winter, I also write “Call my mom” on the back of his hand with an arrow pointing under his sleeve. It is my fervent hope that by spring he will be slightly less inclined towards these shenanigans.

What Elliot learned from this: Not one damn thing. He wasn’t upset and I have no doubt he will hare off again at the first opportunity.

Reunited

Reunited

Pumpkin Spice

We had a grand day with friends yesterday at a local pumpkin patch and corn maze.

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Alden: thoughtful, quiet, moving on his own time.

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Elliot: bold, opinionated, always ready to go

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C, Alden and all kids: up for a kettle korn brunch

 

Four and Six

Years ago I wrote a post called Goodbye to the Baby. I remembered that easily because I felt it so deeply. And now, doesn’t 4 & 6 sound so, so much older than 3 & 5? Just a month ago I was still in that place where my sons’ ages made people’s eyes widen a little. Now, eh. No big deal.

The boys are, as I type, getting haircuts. Damon just texted me this before and after:

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Elliot apparently aged several years right there in the chair, and has possibly joined a gang. I am a battle picker. That means the boys wear their hair how they like it and pick their own clothes when they care to. Which is why Elliot went to school today in white bucks. I’m not all laissez faire though. So far they don’t know that sweat pants exist.

This morning Damon gently suggested that we probably don’t have a need for our pack and play or exersaucer anymore. His timing was excellent. Normally I would shout down such nonsense, but I just put a big down payment on a vacation for next year and I suppose I could squeeze a few dollars out of some of that gear. I guess my nostalgia has a price tag.

When I was a little girl my parents sold our dining room table. I laid on top of the table and cried for the poor thing, part of our family that we were coldly discarding. I should probably make sure that I am not home when the buyer comes for the stroller. I drew the line at the tricycles. I will ride them myself if I have to prove their usefulness.

I loved the baby days. Loved, loved them. I find crazy toddlers delightful. At least my own. That’s all over now. And that makes me really sad. What saves me is that the boys now, as they are, continue to be endlessly interesting to me. It’s harder now to know what they need, but I’m fully engaged in trying to figure that out. They are still funny and charming with great big hearts. And so different, which is also a gift.

They are such a gift. I’m just overwhelmingly aware of my good fortune. That they are who they are. That they came into my life when they did. That Damon is their Dad. That my mom is right down the road and a major part of their days. That so many people surround them with love, and all the different ways that can look. I miss the babies, but I have more than enough.

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(Alden is waiting for his invitation to join Mumford and Sons.)

Life List: Make Mustard

Trying something hard and failing, I am well used to that. Trying something easy and failing… Apparently that will put me off this little life list program for a long time. I made mustard, if you want to be generous and call it that, last year. I spent some time searching through recipes online and found one that felt interesting but do-able. I didn’t keep the link, but what I do recall is that it required an absolute ton of mustard powder. So there’s your first warning. There wasn’t a second warning. I (think) I followed the directions to the letter, and wound up with a paste so searing that I think it singed away my nose hairs from the inside. And I did let it rest first. Heavens knows what it was like on the first few days. Just to smell it made my eyes water. So my process was: research –> shop –> make –> wait –> garbage.

This came not too far on the heels of the fish tank failure, which was much greater in that it was very expensive and included a fatality. What I learned from that is that my life list goals a better to not carry an ongoing obligation. I’m pretty much filled up on ongoing obligations right now.

So. To return. Right back to the mustard. And this time… easy peasy. I did exactly the same kind of random poking around the internet and found these mustard recipes. This time I felt much more free to tinker around a bit. I used yellow mustard seeds in hopes of a less firey result. I used beer as my liquid, since it gave me an excuse to go hand Damon (who was doing manly yard work) a nearly full cold bottle, and I randomly poured in honey a few days later because I thought that would be tasty. And it is, the whole lot. I soaked the seeds as instructed. Then I went out of town and forgot the whole thing in the refrigerator for another week. Then I threw it all in the blender. The next day I added the honey. And now we have homemade mustard. I can’t promise I’ll keep it up, but it’s at least a little bit possible that I will make another batch when we finish this one. Tinkering around with the recipe would be fun.

Now I am back on the horse, so perhaps I’ll find it in me to tackle something else on the list before the year is out.

What I Learned On Summer Vacation

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I cannot tell what I did with my whole week on Folly Beach. I know I spent a lot of time staring at the ocean. I shelled a ton of peanuts for myself and the kids. I read Gone Girl in one day. Even with buckets of time, we never turned on the TV. (Don’t mistake that for TV snobbery. I’m watching Project Runway as I type, and I’m way too invested.) The more freedom, the less time I frittered away scrolling through my Twitter feed. (But I love my Twitter feed!)

My best guess it that when I don’t have the pressure of, “Gah! I only have 10 minutes to myself!” I’m less inclined to pack each second with frantic activity.

An unintentional effect of the TV/internet diet was a total news blackout. The impact of that, a revelation. I felt so much better not knowing the disaster of the moment. Not a little better, a lot better. I think it’s important to know what’s going on in Egypt. I wonder, though, what possible use is it to hear about some personal atrocity or disaster. I need to think about that more. In the meantime, I’m resolving not to click on the horror show links in my social media feeds. And, with regret, I’m going to hide — at least for now — some of my friends who can’t seem to resist sharing that stuff.

My hope is that if I burn less of my concern, adrenaline and empathy on people I will never meet and can’t help, maybe I can put it to better use with people right here in my life.

By the by, I don’t think that means I can’t help a stranger. None of this applies to events that have a wider social implication. If something is breaking on LGBT rights, I want to know so I can send money, write my senator, whatever. If a far-away individual really can use my help, I still want to give it. But I do not need to know about poor Amanda Bynes and her parents. I don’t need to know about some crazy woman having a temper tantrum while her husband films her. I don’t even need to know the crushingly sad stories of disaster befalling children like my own (which is, all children). I can’t help and it just leaves me feeling something between ickiness and despair.