Thursday, September 12, 2013

Lose a Kid, Gain a Potato

"These two lost her. Said they were out getting corn dogs."
Afternoon Readers,

We lost Sundance last weekend. There's really no nice way to put it. I suppose I could say "misplaced," but that makes her sound like a set of candle stick holders received as a wedding gift, stuck in the attic, and the topic of much debate around Thanksgiving. As in...

"I told you not to store the candlestick holders somewhere we couldn't find them. Aunt June will be here for turkey any minute, and she'll want to know we didn't reject her gift with a certain amount of disdain. But seriously, who needs pewter shaped like an ape's hand extended in a sign of welcome and peace?"

No, we lost Sundance. I considered writing about it on Monday, but by Monday, it really didn't seem funny at all. Fact is, not being able to locate a child in a crowded place, like a downtown festival, is the most terrifying feeling in the entire world.

Parts of my heart are still recovering from the shock, but as far as we can piece it together, this is the sequence of events:

  • Paige wonders off in search of food for offspring.
  • Sundance slips quietly away in search of her mother.
  • Paige returns with stroller full of corn dogs.
  • Massive search commences.
  • Paige has first heart attack ever.
  • Sundance is recovered at the security guard's station, laughing and entertaining the surrounding crowd.
  • Paige vows never to leave the house again.And possibly never eat another corn dog.
Here's the thing about thinking you're never going to see your child again. While they're missing, you begin bargaining with God. Because, if He would just find your small pumpkin pie in the blue dress, you will, "Never, ever yell again. Or be impatient with her. Or wonder why she's pouring milk into her shoes."

Because why? Why do they put milk in their shoes?

So, you're the lucky one who gets her child back. And, that night, you hold her, and pat her hair, and cry because you're so happy she's in her little princess bed and not in the dark somewhere.

And then you take her to the store.

Distracted by the vast array of tomatoes destined for Mexican layer dip greatness, it took me a moment to notice Sundance had picked up a sweet potato.

"Honey, put that down."

"You need it."

"I don't need it."

"You want it?"

"Mommy doesn't like sweet potatoes."

"Here."

"Did you bite this potato?"

"I bit it."

I'm not sure what the general rule of produce etiquette is, but on Monday my conscience told me putting an already bitten sweet potato back on the shelf was dishonest, and could possibly cause an outbreak of something Gwyneth Paltrow would jump at playing the lead in the remake of.

The point of this story is that I'm greatful to have my child back, I'm just not sure what to do with the lone sweet potato that came with her.

I'm open to suggestions.

Until Next time, Readers!