Today, metaphorically speaking, I died.
On the up side, I know what it feels like to die. On the down side, I can tell you that it unequivocally sucks.
Allow me to explain.
"Sit here for a moment while Daddy goes to the bathroom", I tell my son while rushing in through the front door upon our return from the grocery store. In once graceful, well practiced motion, I plop my son down on the floor, place 5 bags of groceries up on the counter top and unzip my pants- all while jogging a B-line for the bathroom.
I quickly get down to business. Typically I like to talk to Zach through the bathroom door so he doesn't get scared from the sounds of horrifying death and dismemberment coming from my body. I sing him songs, or time permitting, tell him a story to keep him occupied until I can return to my parental duties.
Today was a story day.
As I'm washing up and longingly looking at the toilet, wishing I could sit for another 5 minutes knowing it will likely be the last time I get to relax for the next 3 to 7 hours, something occurs to me. Zach is quiet.
Now those of you who personally know my son need no explanation of the enormity of this statement and therefore fully understand my immediate concern. But those of you who don't should be aware that silence goes with Zachary about as well as toothpaste goes with orange juice. He feels making a racket in the presence of a little peaceful silence is his social obligation, and one with which he accepts with alacrity. Be it at a grocery store, bookstore or funeral.
The icy tendrils of panic begin to creep into the fringes of my cruelly creative mind.
"Is he choking?" I wonder to myself as I quickly dry my hands.
I walk into the living room to a sight even my over-active adult-ADD imagination was not prepared for.
The front door is open. Zach is gone.
I quickly dash out the door and plunge myself into the wild and dangerous jungle filled with speeding assholes, horny pedophiles and murderous maniacs.
In a fraction of a second I scan the scene. Not on the patio. Not in the front garden. Not in the street in front of the house.
Panic tightens its grip.
I run to the sidewalk. Not under the car. Not up the street
Tightens.
I turn my head. Not down the street.
Tight.
I can see 100 meters down our street, which is likely the way he would go. Nothing.
The world splits open.
The icy tendrils that have a firm death grip on my brain have now seized control of the rest of my body. I can't breathe. I notice my vision blurring and my throat is burning.
Trying to look everywhere at once, I am dimly aware that I am now standing in the middle of the street and shaking uncontrollably. Neighbors have gathered. Apparently I am screaming.
"Whats happened?" one of them asks.
"My Son." I say panting in despair, "he's gone"
Immediately everyone splits up in search of the wayward child. One gracious woman stays behind to help me off the pavement where I had just collapsed. "How long?" she asks me.
"5...minutes... maybe less"
"How far do you think your son can crawl in 5 minutes?"
A groan escaping my lips is the only response I manage.
Like cool honey dripping from a spoon, I can feel the sweetness of life forever leaving me. Growing in it's place is a sticky black self hatred that threatens to consume me. Memories pour over me in a flood.
You tugging on my pants for attention that never comes because I'm watching a basketball game on T.V.
You touching your palm and pointing at me, your own way of saying, "I want" and "You" and getting nothing but a curt "No" for a response because I'm too busy washing the dishes.
You crying when I put you in bed, not caring that you're probably not tired, I just want a break.
I hate myself for ever ignoring you.
I hate myself for every discomfort you've ever suffered.
I don't deserve your perfection.
Your are a bright shining star in the dark empty space of my life.
Suddenly an angel dressed as my neighbor taps me on the shoulder and brings me from my stupor, "Here he is! I found him in our front garden."
With shaky hands, I take my son and give the angel a slobbering snot-soaked smile of gratitude.
Zach, clueless to the entire event, points back in the direction of the garden where he was playing and points to his palm.
"Anything you want son," I whisper to him as I walk over to the garden, "anything at all".
Wiping the tears from my eyes, I look down at you.
All I see is a sky gone crazy with stars.
1 comment:
Ah...the "joys" of parenting. This is how you get gray hair...or lose it completely! So I see we have a little escape artist. Things to look forward to...but thank goodness everything turned out all right. :o)
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