Lost
Those of you who heard the story of me losing my elder child for about 10 minutes at the Mayfair Mall in Milwaukee a year or so ago will be flabbergasted to hear that something along the same lines happened with my younger one just a few days ago. More flabbergasted than anyone, though, was me, who SWORE I'd never allow it to happen again.
My delusion of control crumbled in, of all places, a fabric store--a place not typically considered the haunt of freaks and perverts.
In the ongoing effort to make the transition to "school" easier as my work hours begin to ramp up, I needed some velour to create a small "soft pillow" to be stationed at day care. Our boy has a large purple one, which was made to replace his "soft thing," a leopard-print remnant of the velvet-like fabric I had used to fashion a cavewoman costume for a Halloween party nearly three years ago. The desired softness had apparently gone out of the "soft thing," and the pillow had become the new favorite.
It is bulky, however, and not easily transported--or remembered at pick-up time. And all parents know that bedtime without a lovey is an upleasant time indeed.
As we perused the bolts at Jo-Ann Fabric last Thursday, I asked my assistant to choose the fabric type and print that he wanted me to use. After I rejected a "fashion fabric" that was selling for $19.99 a yard, he selected a camouflage fleece for one face of the pillow and a matching green velour for the other.
Having fabric cut in such a store requires some attention and thinking, especially if you buy fabric as infrequently as I do. How much would I need? Is it impolite to buy only one-quarter of a yard? Would I want more to replace the as-yet nonexistent pillow when it wore out? These questions and more buzzed about my brain as I faced the less-than-happy employee waiting to do my bidding.
Once I had made my decisions and was ready to check out, I turned and said, "OK, kids--time to go!" They had been following each other in loops around the displays of bolts, and I had for the most part maintained an auditory awareness of their whereabouts. Or so I thought.
Big brother quickly appeared from between two rows of fabric, but as I made a pass along the ends of the remaining rows, little sis was nowhere to be seen. Figuring she was still on the move, I made another pass. And then another. Then I looked a little further out into the notions and scissors, and still I didn't find her.
That's when I began calling her name. A minute went by. Soon I was shouting. Another 30 seconds, and I was almost running and yelling for her as I went. Other women in the store took up the search. An employee called for her over the PA system: "Sweetheart, your mommy is looking for you."
Nothing.
It had probably been three minutes, maybe four, and I had already begun to resign myself to never holding her or giving her Eskimo kisses again. I remembered seeing a lady in the store who was no longer there and thought, 'She's taken her!' I spotted the security camera above the door and figured at least the police would have something to provide TV stations when they posted the Amber alert.
And then I heard two women shout, "She's right here!"
I ran to where they were, overjoyed. When I saw what had been going on, a little bit of anger tainted the joy.
The little imp had tucked herself away in a cubby beneath one of the fabric displays and had let the draping ends of the bolts cover her up. And she had intentionally not made a peep.
She was playing hide and seek.
Joy, of course, won out, and I picked her up and hugged her close. I thanked the women, customers and employees alike, who had taken up the search. We checked out and walked out the door to the car. And then we headed to Chuck E. Cheese, where we were due to meet some friends for dinner.
I found their numerical hand stamp scheme reassuring. Perhaps I could pitch it to Jo-Ann Fabrics.
My delusion of control crumbled in, of all places, a fabric store--a place not typically considered the haunt of freaks and perverts.
In the ongoing effort to make the transition to "school" easier as my work hours begin to ramp up, I needed some velour to create a small "soft pillow" to be stationed at day care. Our boy has a large purple one, which was made to replace his "soft thing," a leopard-print remnant of the velvet-like fabric I had used to fashion a cavewoman costume for a Halloween party nearly three years ago. The desired softness had apparently gone out of the "soft thing," and the pillow had become the new favorite.
It is bulky, however, and not easily transported--or remembered at pick-up time. And all parents know that bedtime without a lovey is an upleasant time indeed.
As we perused the bolts at Jo-Ann Fabric last Thursday, I asked my assistant to choose the fabric type and print that he wanted me to use. After I rejected a "fashion fabric" that was selling for $19.99 a yard, he selected a camouflage fleece for one face of the pillow and a matching green velour for the other.
Having fabric cut in such a store requires some attention and thinking, especially if you buy fabric as infrequently as I do. How much would I need? Is it impolite to buy only one-quarter of a yard? Would I want more to replace the as-yet nonexistent pillow when it wore out? These questions and more buzzed about my brain as I faced the less-than-happy employee waiting to do my bidding.
Once I had made my decisions and was ready to check out, I turned and said, "OK, kids--time to go!" They had been following each other in loops around the displays of bolts, and I had for the most part maintained an auditory awareness of their whereabouts. Or so I thought.
Big brother quickly appeared from between two rows of fabric, but as I made a pass along the ends of the remaining rows, little sis was nowhere to be seen. Figuring she was still on the move, I made another pass. And then another. Then I looked a little further out into the notions and scissors, and still I didn't find her.
That's when I began calling her name. A minute went by. Soon I was shouting. Another 30 seconds, and I was almost running and yelling for her as I went. Other women in the store took up the search. An employee called for her over the PA system: "Sweetheart, your mommy is looking for you."
Nothing.
It had probably been three minutes, maybe four, and I had already begun to resign myself to never holding her or giving her Eskimo kisses again. I remembered seeing a lady in the store who was no longer there and thought, 'She's taken her!' I spotted the security camera above the door and figured at least the police would have something to provide TV stations when they posted the Amber alert.
And then I heard two women shout, "She's right here!"
I ran to where they were, overjoyed. When I saw what had been going on, a little bit of anger tainted the joy.
The little imp had tucked herself away in a cubby beneath one of the fabric displays and had let the draping ends of the bolts cover her up. And she had intentionally not made a peep.
She was playing hide and seek.
Joy, of course, won out, and I picked her up and hugged her close. I thanked the women, customers and employees alike, who had taken up the search. We checked out and walked out the door to the car. And then we headed to Chuck E. Cheese, where we were due to meet some friends for dinner.
I found their numerical hand stamp scheme reassuring. Perhaps I could pitch it to Jo-Ann Fabrics.
posted by Lisa Strandberg at 6:55 AM
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