My mom sang in the
choir and Dad was a last-pew, recovering Baptist. His job was to keep me quiet
for the entire service. I was a little tyke and one Sunday I fell asleep under
the pew. Momma and Daddy were half-way home before they realized I wasn’t in
the car, so they turned around and came back for me. I was still sound asleep
under the pew. Momma wanted to wake me, but Daddy said “Nah, just let him
sleep.”
There’s a shade of narcissism in me that makes me want to
drop my cloak of invisibility when I am eavesdropping and share my own tales
with complete strangers. My introverted inner nemesis quickly puts the kibosh
on that idea and that is why I blog my narcissistic ponderings instead. Isn’t
that why blogs were created?
I, too, have left a child behind. She’s recovered
beautifully and rarely has episodes of abandonment paranoia, but the nugget of
guilt still scars my otherwise flawless mothering career. If she were more of a
conniving personality, she could easily use the incident for material gain –
designer clothing, a new car, perhaps a pink pony. Fortunately for me, her
sister was also there, so I can push some of the blame onto her and emotionally
damage both of them. It’s parenting BOGO.
It was a late night volleyball practice. Brittany was
playing, I was coaching, and 3-year old Jessica was fighting cockroaches for
Friday night’s spilled popcorn and Milk Duds under the bleachers. After putting
the equipment away, flipping off the lights and double checking that all the
doors were locked, Brittany and I were a couple miles down the road before she
said “Wasn’t Jessica with us?” My initial reaction was “No. I don’t think so” immediately
followed by fist to the gut panic.
With squealing tires, I General Lee'd my Astro
minivan on a narrow country road and floored it back to the school. With the two
front wheels planted on the memorial brick path that leads to the gym entrance,
I barely had the vehicle in park before Brittany and I flew out of the van and
ran to the glass doors, banging and screaming at the top of our lungs, praying someone
was on late night duty. After an eternal two-minutes, a very confused maintenance
man came to the door.
“What you want?” he shouted through the glass.
“I forgot my daughter. I left her in the gym.”
It was obvious he was contemplating which authorities to
call. If I were lying, he should call the cops and a paddy wagon. If I were telling
the truth, he should call the cops and children’s services. Either way, he
probably should have called the cops. But he didn’t. Instead, he disengaged the
alarm, flipped through his thirty-seven keys and, finally, mercifully, opened
the door. I pushed past him and rushed into the dark gym.
Sitting contentedly in the center of the painted Indian
mascot on the gym floor lit only by the red glow of the exit signs was Jessica,
cheerfully singing television commercial jingles. Brittany and I gathered her up,
showering her with kisses and apologies. “It’s ok, Mommy. I knew you would come
back.”
From the doorway, the maintenance man coughed and chuckled
“Five more minutes and I wouldn’t’ve been here.” He shook his head. “Yep.
Would’ve locked up and she woulda been sitting there all night.”
I often share this story at social gatherings
that specialize in awkward silences and those little cocktail weenies soaked in
barbecue sauce and each time I share it, someone will chime in with their lost,
forgotten, or abandoned child story. Once we have bared our souls, we’ll smile knowingly
at each other, for we are part of a very exclusive level of bad parenting.
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