Mary Angel
(12/2021) Whether it be falling down the steps while holding one of my infants or trying to avoid getting peed on when I changed my first son’s diaper or muddling through parenting a teenage girl, some days I have to wonder why the hospital allowed me to bring my babies home. Most of all I wondered whether I was qualified to be a mom for "The Infamous Case of the Missing 3-Year-Old".
The day started out like any other. The kids got up way too early and filed into my room to wake me. First the oldest, then the second son, followed by my sweet little toddling girl. Luckily the baby was still asleep, maybe because she had gotten me up three times during the night. After a few hugs and some kisses and sweet good mornings, I got three sweet requests for breakfast. Breakfast consisted of "homemade" cereal and milk and some Disney Junior.
While I was cleaning up and doing the dishes the kids started playing in the living room. It may sound like a cliché but it was a morning like any other. While the kids were watching cartoons and playing, the baby woke up; I changed her diaper, and fed her. As the morning progressed we all played games and had a morning snack. A few more hours and it was lunch time and time for sandwiches and salads. I have always been lucky that my kids love almost every vegetable. After lunch, and many more diaper changes, I put the baby down for a nap. The kids sat down to play with Little People and I asked the boys to keep an eye on their sister while I was upstairs (and to holler if she needed to use the potty).
The next half hour went by so slowly; it felt like we were in slow motion in a bad movie. When I came downstairs from putting the baby to bed, my boys were still watching cartoons. I went to the kitchen to do the dishes and asked the boys and my daughter to bring me all of the dirties from the table. The boys jumped to it and started bringing me dirty dishes. I quickly realized that the boys weren’t getting any help from their sister. When I asked why she wasn’t helping they stated in unison, "I don’t know". I went to the living room to interrogate the suspect, only to find that she wasn’t there. The boys both insisted she was there when they were playing with her, but they didn’t notice when she specifically disappeared.
I didn’t immediately panic. First, I started calling her name and looked in the bathroom, dining room and sitting room. At this point I may have started to worry just a little bit. Next, I asked the boys to search all of the bedrooms on the second floor and I headed for the basement (even though I didn’t hear any doors open or close). Needless to say, my panic and stress was beginning to boil like a tea pot just before the whistle blows. I truly had run out of ideas and places to look.
At this point I went into panic mode, which involved looking in crazy places. The truth is she couldn’t have been missing long enough to make it far at all. It also would have been impossible for someone to snatch her from our living room without the boys noticing. This doesn’t mean I didn’t consider that as a possibility. Every minute that passed my theories grew crazier and crazier. The insanity led me to send the boys to the closest neighbors and check to see if she had simply wandered. This brought several phone calls from concerned neighbors, who had to leave a message because I was frantically checking all the nooks and crannies of the house.
After looking in every closet, double checking the backyard and basement, and searching the garage I truly believed I had looked everywhere. I then turned to the ridiculous and looked in the pantry (which was too small for her to fit in) and the fridge (which she would have emptied to have any chance of squeezing into). Although the search had only taken about fifteen minutes, I was completely hysterical. This was not a proud mommy moment.
In a moment of clarity I dropped to my knees sobbing and began to pray. In the silence I heard a strange crackling sound. Very quietly I began to search again. Up until now all of the searching was done frantically and with quite a bit of noise. As I tracked down the noise I became more and more hopeful (and confused) with every step. I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what that sound was.
As I listened, I pictured cellophane crinkling, or someone crumbling old dry leaves. Nothing I thought of made any sense. As I came into the living room, I could tell the sound was getting louder. The problem was every time I stopped, so did the sound. Finally I walked over to my husband’s oversized brown leather chair that was positioned caddy corner against the half wall that ran between the living room and the eat-in kitchen. I slowly approached the chair and could hear the crinkling get louder. As I leaned over the back of the chair I was overwhelmed by a feeling of relief and frustration. There, sitting huddled in the corner was my daughter and a large pile of candy. Apparently she had been smuggling small batches of Halloween candy behind the chair so that she could feast at will and not have to ask permission.
This was one of those times as a mom that I felt like a failure. How could I have misplaced my child? How could I not have known she was sneaking candy? How could I have gone into such a ridiculous panic? The fact is that we are all going to have failures as parents; but are they really? If we accept that we aren’t perfect and that neither are our children, then maybe these are just opportunities to educate our children and ourselves, to humble ourselves, and to remember that our children and our life are gifts and that we should appreciate every moment and forgive yourself because parenting is hard work!
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