We’re in Atlantic City with the whole family. Dad, Mom, Grandpa, Grandma, Uncle, Aunt, cousin, the whole family. We’re heading toward the ocean with all our gear to spend the morning at the beach. We haven’t forgotten a thing—the carts, the chairs, the coolers, the towels—we even have THE big beach tent to protect us from the hot sun that’s tanning us right before our eyes. All in single file, we’re trudging along the scorching sand, taking great care not to lose anything along the way. Once we reach the right spot, the adults take the time to lay out their towels on the ground, unfold the chairs, position them facing the ocean, and set up the tent. We start to relax a bit as we look around… “Where’s Nathan?”
Trying to stay calm, I look around again: his little sister is playing in the sand next to us, the cousins are a little further away where the sand is wet, but Nathan? He’s not here; he’s not with them. Anxiety starts to set in. The whole family starts looking around, but no one can see him. I think to myself, “How is it possible that there are seven adults here and no one was watching him?” I’m angry at the others for losing him, even though if it’s anyone’s fault, it can only be mine. I’m the mother; I shouldn’t expect everyone else to watch my son for the two minutes that I’m not watching him myself. If I’m not watching him for whatever reason, I need to make sure someone else takes charge. I shouldn’t assume that, just because there are a lot of people, someone in the group will keep an eye on him.
It reminds me of the little boy who drowned in his pool on his birthday, even though there were plenty of guests at the house. No one was in charge of watching him, so no one knew they were supposed to. No! We’re near the ocean—did my son get too close and get swept out to sea by the waves? He can’t swim very well yet, and his float is right here with me. Or was he kidnapped? We’re in Atlantic City, hundreds of kilometers from home, in a country where everyone speaks a language I’m only somewhat comfortable with and that my son doesn’t understand at all. Even if he hasn’t been kidnapped, how will he be able to ask for help, say where we are, or who we are?
Then I see him... In the arms of a police officer who’s clearly looking around for us. Nathan is calm and is also looking around, hoping to find us. Unable to move, I point out to my husband where my son is, and he goes to take him from the officer’s arms, thanking him from the bottom of his heart. When my husband hands my son to me, I hug him so tightly that I tell myself I have to be careful or I’ll hurt him. I know I should lecture him, explain that he always has to stay close to us, but I can’t bring myself to do it—my throat is tight and my eyes are filled with tears. I only lost sight of him for two minutes; I know it might seem over the top to cry, so I try to hide it, but it’s hard.
Two minutes might seem short, but it’s long enough for something to really happen—and clearly WAY too long for a mom who imagines every possible disaster.