It is every parent’s worst nightmare. You look or step away only briefly and suddenly your child is gone.

My son, Brock, was three at the time. It was a hot summer day and I had been watering the grass for most of the morning since we have a large yard sans an automatic sprinkler system. It was early afternoon when I realized I needed to turn the water off before getting him down for a nap. Intending to keep my mischievous toddler occupied and out of trouble while I briefly went outside one last time, I got him situated with a snack at the kitchen table.  I went out, turned off the hoses and within minutes came back in fully anticipating a big mess and a little boy to be right there waiting for me.  Yet upon my return to the kitchen the mess was the only party present.  A little surprised, although certainly not alarmed, I initially walked from room to room calling his name. No answer. I went upstairs and repeated the same. Still no answer. Puzzled, I raised my voice and began a more thorough search. He was no where to be found. Apparently the little stinker had slipped out the back door while I was out front.

My level of concern heightened–as did my heart rate–as I ran outside to search our yard, the garage, and the wooded area adjacent our house.  The neighborhood was dreadfully quiet since everyone was retreating indoors due to the current heat wave.  Therefore, Brock’s presence in the immediate vicinity would have been conspicuous.  It was clear that he was neither within sight nor ear shot. My mind began racing, fathoming any and all directions in which he could have wandered. Aside from a road where traffic flies by at 50+ mph, our neighborhood is flanked by several acres of private land brimming with creeks and wildlife.

My search was getting more frantic when a neighbor appeared whom I enlisted to help keep an eye out for him.  I then thought of two nearby homes he might have wandered to, so I immediately proceeded to option #1.  Nobody home.  On to the second possibility.  They had not seen him but offered to help in the search.  As we were hollering for Brock and discussing where he may have gone, it became increasingly difficult not to let the growing knot in my stomach get the best of me.  So with about 15 minutes of elapsed time since he had gone missing–and having two additional adults also unsuccessful in finding him thus far–all evidence suggested he was not within the boundaries of which I could assume he was safe.  I was no longer able to fight off the worry and began pondering all the things he could be encountering without anyone there to protect him.   Just as I was on the brink of going into panic mode and making the dreaded call to authorities, a light bulb went off.

I immediately thought of Pavlov’s theory.

Just as Pavlov’s dog repeated a conditioned response to the sound of a bell, so does my son.  Only in this case it’s the doorbell, and instead of salivating at the sound of it, it is the act of racing to the door to ensure he reaps the glory of being the first to discover who is on the other side.  His response is so immediate it’s apparent that this stimulus triggers an automatic reaction:  doorbell = run.  If, by chance, he was in the house, this would surely lure him out if hiding.

I went to our front porch, rang the bell and held my breath.  Within seconds I heard the eager pitter-patter of little bare feet on hardwood floors getting closer and closer until he swung the front door open.  Flabbergasted, I cried out, “where have you been??  I have been looking EVERYWHERE for you!”

He looked up at me, shrugged his shoulders, and quickly retorted, “well, you didn’t look under your covers!”

So my trip to Paris was awesome. Not a whole lot of shock-value in that statement.

Yet slightly more dramatically (had I been told during the first two days of the journey that I would someday make the following declaration I would have figured that either myself or the deliverer of said message was tripping on acid or some other powerful hallucinogen), I would go as far as to say (and stone sober, mind you) that my time in Paris, albeit my only solo expedition to date, was not only my most memorable vacation but one of the greatest times of my life. The experience was flanked with brief but distressing adjustment periods (strangely, I again suffered culture shock upon returning home) but it was the many wonderful days in the middle that made all the difference in the world.

To briefly emphasize the benefits I reaped before referencing a less cheery affair, Paris provided me with a much-needed change of scenery, pace and emotional climate. It provided me the chance to reclaim my identity and, for the first time in a while, I genuinely cherished the joy of living. I returned with renewed energy, insight, and perception. Most importantly, it gave me the time and space to replenish what had become a desperately starved and malnourished entity: my spirit.

Pity I just had to spend five soul-sucking days at the beach with my mother.

My mother who, nearly always driven by egocentric motives, imposes her disguised negativity anytime things aren’t going precisely the way she thinks they should. Now, don’t get me wrong, she’s as pleasant as a peach when she wants to be and she tries very hard not to be blatantly biting with her words (which are often under the breath utterances). Rather she is insidious like a poisonous snake slithering in the tall grass, donning what I call “the look” and waiting until the right time to strike using the mental inventory she’s taken. The Look is usually not made with direct eye contact; it’s simply a judgmental expression of such disgust and disdain that it manages to drain the recipient of all self-worth and value. Yet if anyone were to confront her about these things she is always equipped to cover her tracks with a reserve of manipulative tactics ranging from changing her obvious intent to flat-out lying about things she’s said or done.

Needless to say, my trip to the beach wasn’t all that beachy.

In conclusion, my voyages within the last month–the first to Paris, the second to the Outer Banks (which encompasses the graveyard of the Atlantic)–should be aptly memorialized as
the treasure and the shipwreck, respectively.

Hell, you didn’t think I chose the title for this blog out of thin air, did you?

Wouldn’t it figure that this, being the first really beautiful day in over a week and possibly the most beautiful so far this year, I would be too sick to go out and enjoy it? Today was also the day I was really looking forward to because it’s the only one this week I had wide open without prior obligations.

Last night was absolutely horrid. I was unable to sleep at all except for possibly a few minutes here and there due to (pardon the tmi) the droves of relentless post-nasal drip. I believe I took every legal cold-related product on the market (plus a few illegal ones) without benefit. I even made myself a mug of hot green tea at 3 am which did seem to provide enough relief to allow me about 8-10 minutes of sleeping upright before awakening to the myriad of symptoms accompanied by a kink in my side.

I was hoping when I got up this morning that after taking a shower and another fistful of remedial products I would at least improve enough to be able to meet my friend out for coffee and conversation.

Nope. Still feel like shit.

And I can’t even remember how long it’s been since I’ve popped what because I am having to ingest both the maximum doses of ibuprofen and aspirin every few hours. Since I can’t keep track, I just throw back more pills when something starts terribly hurting again. I am kind of thinking those two aren’t even supposed to be taken simultaneously.

Anyway, in case you are wondering: no, this entry really does not serve a purpose other than lamenting on my pathetic condition. And instead of actually writing 1,000 words, I decided to include a picture. As one would expect after a night like I had, it is certainly not very flattering.

This is me at about 7:00 this morning; unfortunately, with little to no improvement since.

What do you think? Should I make it my avatar?

I now strongly advise that you go wash your hands!

To the faint of heart, please be advised that this narrative does contain some graphic material.

I remember it as if it were yesterday. It was a bright and beautiful morn with the aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeating the air of my sun-drenched kitchen. I was happily hosting our quaint little coffee club of sorts that a couple of friends and I enjoyed at least weekly. It was not long after the other two had arrived, for we had just begun enjoying each other’s company and were barely into our first cups of joe when I caught a faint whiff of an odor that was not a result of something I had brewed. If my suspicions served me correctly, it was likely emanating from my not quite two year old son who was playing nearby. Using my keen sense of smell which is bestowed by motherhood and tantamount to that of a hounds, I began turning my head while instinctively sniffing in his direction. The results: affirmative.

Rising from the table I assured my companions that they would not have to miss me for long since I was a pro at this diaper changing stuff. After all, he is my third child and this would have been in the ballpark of my ten thousandth diaper to change (seriously, I did the math). Admittedly, you can occasionally be thrown a curve ball with unforeseen circumstances, like the time a few years prior when I was changing my daughter’s diaper. Upon wiping a stubborn glob of poo that seemed to somehow be affixed, a thin, string-like substance emerged. “What the…?” I muttered. Just like a long strand of handkerchiefs being pulled from a magician’s hat, the more I extracted, the longer this never-ending enigma grew. I was on the brink of freaking out when, suddenly, the light bulb in my head went off.

Dental floss.

Yes. My child often enjoyed getting into my cinnamon flavored floss to suck off the spicy sweetness. As a result of this incident, I learned that it’s never too early to teach them not to swallow. This advice will prove helpful again someday–do not allow them chewing gum until you’ve made this clear!

Since that was my most unusual experience with diapers to date, it’s fair to say that most changes are rather routine and uneventful. Eager to get it over with and return to socializing with my guests, I intended to scoop up my toddler, carry him upstairs to the necessary supplies and free his little booty from it’s annoying stench. He, nevertheless, was less anxious to have the situation resolved. Just as I bent over to snatch him up he beelined to the nearest corner and dashed behind a faux ficus. Since he obviously wasn’t going to come out voluntarily, I decided to be one step ahead and use my infinite motherly wisdom to devise a plan. My fool-proof plot was to fake a right which would undoubtedly force him out the left where I would swiftly and oh-so-cunningly apprehend him.

The plan would have come off faultlessly if not for this:

Close-up of Exhibit A

Ah, the infamous corner. Just as I diverted my body toward the right to make my fake, WHAM! With great force, my brow bone unexpectedly collided into the corner of our entertainment center, shown above. If you have ever heard the sound of bone fiercely coming into contact with something equally hard, then I don’t need to further explain the resulting thud. After the moment of impact, I immediately placed my hand over the source of the pain, and with my head bent down, sat silently, frozen in shock. I was so jolted that I did not shout or scream or even utter so much as one profane word, unlike any other time I have suddenly encountered bodily harm. I was conscious, yet oddly speechless.

After what seemed like several minutes the shock began to wear off and I slowly removed my hand from my head. Before I had brought my hand to where I could see it, streams of blood spilled before my eyes. It was pouring from the cut as well as the reservoir that had pooled into my palm. As I stood up and began making my way to the kitchen, my always calm and rational friend began to panic at the sight–which admittedly, I found a bit disconcerting. As I started explaining what had happened she told me not to speak since every time my face moved the gash on my brow bone widened.

So much for enjoying a cup of coffee.

The other guest then tended to the now-infamous diaper situation. After managing Brock’s dirty deed she teased, “if you didn’t want to change him, all you had to do was ask!”

By the time our coffee club broke for the day Brock had acquired a clean diaper and I a black eye, liquid stitches, a headache, a gash that would leave a scar, and a medical bill.

Now in addition to my right eye boasting a two-toned iris of blue and brown, it also bears a permanent mark that will forever provide a loving reminder of the joys of having a potty-trained child–and of the occasional pitfalls of motherly-wisdom.

No, I ain’t foolin’. As if it were Christmas or her birthday or some other occasion known for its gifts and festivities, my nine year old daughter had looked forward to April Fool’s Day since the first week of March. Although somewhat endearing, it is same to assume that she had thus been plotting for at least that long. Fortunately, she was wise enough to leave me out of her silly shenanigans.

I think it turned out that the foolin’ was on her, since she was less than successful in her endeavors. Her main target, assuredly by default, was big sister, Kayli. Either her rationale must have been that she envisioned her father and I to be too smart to fall prey, or none too happy if we did.

After lamenting that Kayli would doubtfully accept an offer of cookies from her on any given day, let alone April Fool’s, she confided the secret ingredient to me. She had ingeniously taken a few Oreos and replaced the white filling with toothpaste. In all actuality, she did a fine good job. They looked like genuine, untampered with food products. Not divulging this to her, but had I been in the market for an Oreo, I totally would have fallen for it.

Running out of possible victims, she knew he was her last resort, but also knew there may be uncomfortable consequences if her prank caused the unwitting party to freak out. “I can’t do it to Brock, can I, because he’s just a little kid?” Considering the just-mentioned little kid detests any kind of minty toothpaste to the point that he causes quite a production of yelling and spitting and then yelling some more, I confirmed it was a no-go. “Dang,” she said, “I ruined these Oreos for nothing!” I reassured her that it wasn’t for nothing. For she could now eat her snack and clean her teeth at the same time.

Later when Kayli returned home, and not knowing anything of the cookie incident, she laughingly told me that Makenna had tried to get her for April Fool’s Day. I asked how she knew, but soon realized we weren’t talking about the same matter. For some reason, Kayli had thought to check her alarm clock the previous night, which usually remains programmed to the same time. Lo and behold, it was set for 5:00 a.m, an hour and half before she gets up. Momentarily puzzled by this, she then recollected that it was the eve of the day her younger sister had been plotting for weeks. It doesn’t take a crime scene investigator to put those pieces together.

I have to admit, for a nine year old she devised some darn good stratagems. And although her success fell short of her ambitions, more importantly her heart was in the right place.

Well, sort of.