Rapid Palpitations

Yesterday ended beautifully enough…….dinner with Super Hubs and another couple at a charming restaurant (Asian Chicken Salad and Pinot Grigio)…...a bubble bath (Bath and Body Works’ Vanilla Chamomile)…….a yummy read (“The Murder Artist” by John Chase).

And the beginning part of the day was also lovely. I took Little Squirt to The Dollar Store to buy family Christmas presents of his exact albeit inappropriate choosing (plastic race car for Uncle Nick, stuffed penguin for Grandpa). Precious and adorable.

My Panic Attack occurred during the noon hour. After shopping with Little Squirt, I promised him lunch out. We ate at McDonald’s, which always must include at least 30 minutes of romp time in the nasty, germ-infested Playland. So up he climbed on the chutes and ladders while I curled up with “The Murder Artist” and a large cherry Pepsi. Ah....bliss.

I was just at the part of the book where the protagonist’s 6-year-old twin sons are abducted, when I glanced around to “eyeball” my son. He was nowhere in sight. I stood up, and looked around further. No Little Squirt. The Playland was fairly empty, with only three other children playing. “Little Squirt?” I called, wondering if he was in a tube, out of sight. No answer.

“Did anyone see which way my little boy went?” I called to the other children, slightly concerned. Three heads shook from side to side. One of the boys volunteered to check upward, to the tubes that were far overhead, but soon came back down, shrugging his shoulders.

Now I was beginning to feel anxious. No. I was panicked! My mind raced, imagining the worst. Where was my little boy?? My baby??!! Had he been kidnapped from right under my nose while I read a book about childhood abduction??!!! Oh, the horrible irony of it all! Please, Dear God! No!! Nooooo!!!

As I stood in front of The Playland, momentarily paralyzed by fear, suddenly the children’s bathroom door slammed open. Little Squirt came running out, handed me his soiled underwear rolled into a ball, and proceeded back up a ladder, oblivious to my fear. And apparently going "commando.”

I stood there, relief washing over me. I HAD MY BABY BOY BACK, safe and sound!! And his dirty underwear, which I wrapped in a napkin and stuck in my purse; the purse's lifespan now permanently altered, no matter how much air freshener I’ve squirted since. But a purse is just a purse. Little Squirt is undeniably my precious, precious child. Perspective is an amazing thing.