Our Friday Morning
We went to story time today at Family Connections. As usual, we got there too late. Today we couldn’t get into the actual story time room. Instead we explored the play center/library with a handful of moms and toddlers who were also too tardy to enter. But we were among friends, literally. Lanell, my doula, and her little guy, Hugh, were there too. They tried to sneak in late and were asked to leave. Apparently, the room was too full. It is a safety issue not a punishment, which is what it feels like, but we made do. And when story time ended the play center filled with dozens and dozens of squirmy little people coming and going in all directions.
Lily walked up to our friends Josephine and Jen and said hello in her own Lily way. And Josephine said hello right back in her own Josephine way. Then I saw Stephanie, a mama in the new moms group that Lanell hosted last July. I hadn’t seen her since Lily was about four months old. We got to talking and Lily zigged and zagged from the play kitchen, to the dining room, to the library, to the interactive flower art, to the bead table, weaving her way through mamas and toddlers and babies. She stole toys, got pushed for trying to steel toys, had a melt down, shook it off, climbed on a rocking chair, climbed on a stool and pulled books from the library stacks. She stayed in my peripheral vision, moving, moving, moving, until she wasn’t there. I looked in the area she was playing and made a joke to Stephanie about losing my child, but she wasn’t there. She wasn’t by the door or the kitchen, not in the library stacks closest to me or near the story time room. My mind locked onto useful information: pink dress, creme bow, pink dress, creme bow. My eyes darted from the doorway, to the adults, to the colors of the kids outfits. I couldn’t think beyond finding her, and I couldn’t think of not finding her.
Shit.
Shit!
Then Stephanie said, “She’s over there.”
And she was.
I’ve never felt so relieved at the sight of a little pink dress with a creme bow on the collar. She was behind a little nook on the other side of the kitchen. When she saw me she walked over chatting about something, oblivious to the fact that she takes my heart with her everywhere she goes and all I can do is let her. I gave it to her. It’s hers. I don’t want it back.
But this was my first I-can’t-find-my-child experience. Scary as it was, it was my experience, not hers. She wasn’t scared; she was chatty. So I bent down and hugged her.
And you know what?
She hugged me back.