I know I can be grouchy in the mornings. But when I feel like crap it can hardly be helped, can it?
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I took Sarah to her swim class yesterday. Afterward we were dressed and ready to go. We had some time to kill, and to be honest, I was dying for a coffee (10:30 and I hadn’t had one yet!!) so I suggested we go upstairs, where there is a small lounge/play area and snack bar.
The changerooms at our neighborhood rec centre are awful, most notably the entrance. It’s a narrow corridor, only about 1.25 people wide, with a permanently affixed bench sticking out of one wall. This is where people sit down to remove their shoes, and sit down to put on their shoes. And their children’s shoes. And the shoes go underneath the bench and on one nearby racks. It is impossible to get by if someone is in the midst of shoe removal. And I haven’t even mentioned the strollers.
It’s always a race to put on your shoes. Or a wait. There is no in between. This place is so poorly planned. I would like to throttle the architect, and ask him if he knows how hard it is to get kids ready after swimming, and why he didn’t include something in his plan to make it easier for the parents.
I digress.
Sarah and I were on our way out of the changeroom, and two ladies with strollers were on their way in. Sarah was in front of me. She went all the way out the door. I stood holding it for the ladies & babies, and I wasn’t looking to see where Sarah was going because I was adjusting my right pantleg because it was still folded upwards from when I was giving Sarah a shower and my sport sock was showing.
No biggie though. I’m not the kind of parent who needs my five-year old within two feet of me at all times. Ha.
I looked up, and Sarah was gone. Gone. Not there. At all.
At first I called her name quietly. Sarah? Nothing. Some parents looked over at me curiously.
Sarah? I started calling a little louder. I called up and down the hall. By this time I was shouting. My voice echoed off the tiled walls and high ceilings. I called into the changeroom. Silence. I ran outside calling her name. I asked two ladies if they’d seen a little girl in a pink coat leave the building. No.
I’m not usually the paranoid sort but we all know that bad things happen. Why, just the other day there was a story of a man who hid in a school bathroom and assaulted a grade two girl.
I felt that horrible lurch in my gut we all feel when our children disappear from view.
Ohgodohgodohgodwhereareyouwhereareyou.
The rational side of me knew it was impossible to lose her in this building. But I was also second-guessing myself at the same time. She wouldn’t leave (or would she?) and the only people here at this time of day are moms and their kids.
In hindsight I wonder why no one helped me. My sense of alarm was clear. Anyone could guess what was going on, yet I was alone. I find this hard to fathom because I’m usually the kind of person who would help a stranger in distress.
After a very painful minute – two – more? I saw the elevator open and heard loud crying. It was Sarah. Relief! Her face was as red as a beet and she was sobbing uncontrollably.
We hugged. My jacket was soon wet with tears. Somehow I managed to hold mine back. “What happened honey,” I asked. “Where did you go? I was worried!”
“I was worried toooooooo !” she cried. She could hardly get the words out. As it turns out she knew we were going upstairs, saw the elevator and went inside thinking I was behind her all the while. Then the door closed on her. Thankfully the elevator didn’t actually go anywhere.
We went into the elevator together and I showed her which button to press to open the door. We went upstairs together, I bought her a muffin and she went to play, but I don’t think for a minute this will be forgotten by either of us.
