When I step out of toddler James's room, blinking as a new vampire would in the bright daylight, I have only one mission: get the four year old, Emma, to her bed for some quiet time. It's already been a long morning with coffee spilt on the couch (my fault) and the dog vomiting on the carpet in the family room (no one's fault). Em had been whiny most of the day, and James was up to his usual toddler antics. Finally time for a bit of quiet in the Loughran household, I think to myself.
I walk next door to Em's room and glance inside to see if she's already playing quietly, but she's not in there. I amble down our one lamp hallway, trying not to wake the creaky floor boards. The movie she had been watching was paused (a neat trick we had taught her a while back, so she could come and go as she pleased without missing one minute of her shows). In noticing that Em wasn't anywhere to be found, I find myself mildly impressed that she's paused it on her own.
I shrug my shoulders and lurch down the stairs to take a peek around, thinking maybe she was playing a pop-up game of hide and seek. I peep behind the curtains and reading chair. Still, she's nowhere that I can see. I begin to convince myself I'm hearing phantom giggles. Or maybe it's crying? Is James awake? Or is that Em?
My pulse quickens and I take a deep breath. At four (almost 5), she knows not to leave the house, and there haven't been any deliveries of boxes to the front door that she would have opened the front door for. I start to walk upstairs and instead change direction to go down to the bowels of the house. The basement holds the play room, the laundry room and behind another door, there's a set of wooden slat stairs that go down to where the cat lurks. The extra storage basement. I jog down and into the laundry room first. Both the washer and dryer are open, but I glance in anyway. The intrusive thoughts begin to cloud my mind. Have I talked to her about not hiding in the washer and dryer? I'm sure we warned her about not opening the door to the basement. I never liked those slatted stairs.
Then I freeze thinking of the upright freezer. Have I talked to her about the dangers of hiding in refrigerators or freezers? I race to the freezer and throw it open hulk like strength, slamming the lid against the wall. I breathe a sigh of relief. She's not in there. Where then? Where could she be? I try to keep from running, but at this point my heart is racing, and my breath has quickened. Goose bumps erupt on my arms. Though it was a chilly fall day outside, it's warm enough for us to be comfortable in short sleeves. We had been looking forward to going out into the crisp fall air after James's nap. I wipe my sweaty brow and start to say a little prayer to find her. Where could she be?
With each terrible thought that haunts across my mind, I dart a little quicker room to room, not so quietly calling her name. My mind is racing again. Did she actually leave the house? What if someone came in and took her? What if I didn't tell her about all the places she's not supposed to hide in, because she could get hurt? The oven? The fridge? What about our second story deck, and if she got out there and decided to get on the railing "like a bird" for some reason? What if she decided she didn't want to take a nap and instead packed her leopard cat backpack with her "essentials" and ran away?
I recall the story of the time I ran away from home. My parents still talk about it to this day. I had packed my little suitcase with all that an 8 year old might find to be treasures. My stuffed bear, maybe a nightgown, possibly a snack. I was mad about something or other. My parents don't seem to remember this part of the story, and it doesn't matter. I walked defiantly into the kitchen and told my parents that I was running away. My mom told me to take a jacket because it was raining. Or was it snowing? It was cold. Anyway, my mom followed me out the door and down the street. For a block and a half, I'm sure her mind was having some intrusive thoughts too. I don't know if I got tired of walking, or forgot what I was mad about, but I turned back around. Together, my mom and I walked back home.
Still trying to hold onto some sanity, trying to force those unpleasant thoughts back where they came from, I keep calling out to her. My breath starts to catch in my throat, and I'm close to crying. Room to room I comb through the belongings. I look behind and under everything I possibly can. Like a ghost wandering aimlessly, throwing random things out of the closet so I can see better to the back. I am close to tears at this point, wondering if I needed to call 911 if I couldn't find her. What is life? Why can't I find her? I wander into her room again, to once again look at what I'm possibly missing.
Suddenly, I see that her comforter has a bit of a lump in it. A tiny human shape. I see where her legs must be, one leg pulled up to her chest. I see where her head is on a pink unicorn pillow. I take a deep breath and pull back the (also pink) unicorn comforter. More goosebumps erupt on my arms with the breeze of the comforter coming off her little body, and a relieved laugh escapes my lips. She's been safely asleep this whole time.
For the first time in a while, because I can't even remember the last time she napped during the day, my little girl took the initiative, turned off her show, and is napping. She's actually a big girl. I think warmly. I kiss her tiny warm cheek. Maybe it's not as cool as I think it is, though my arms are still full of goosebumps from the short time that I was searching frantically for her.
Relieved, I found that I couldn't stop giggling randomly at the whole situation for the rest of the day. My mind immediately going directly to that terrible place of intrusive thoughts so quickly may just be a reflection of what kind of movies and books I like to read (horror, thriller, gory, etc.) But I am proud of myself for thinking through looking first in all the terrible places she could have been hiding from me. I make note that we should talk about those nightmare places that are not for hiding. We should talk about this sometime soon, so next time I don't have an actual heart attack.
All those years ago, when my mother followed me while I was "running away", I feel like I remember knowing her presence was behind me, watching over me. Just as I know now that she is always there for me, whether she can be there in person or not. I was glad for her protection as I crossed a road out of our culs de sac. I was glad to be there for Emma, thinking through all the nightmare places that I could have found her, happy to find her safe and sound. The intrusive thoughts were what made the nightmare of not being able to find her even more scary, even though she actually was safe and sound. I'm thankful for my mother being able to follow me as I ran away.
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Haunted".
Thank you for reading Ramblings of a thirty four year old wife and mom. Suggestion box is open and ready for inspiration on the next big ramble to write about. Don’t be shy!
Inspiration for you: When has an every day event turned into something terribly stressful for even a few seconds? Did you have to turn your brain off from the intrusive thoughts making it 1000 times worse?
Inspiration (and accountability) for me: Still working on that transitions for October Rambling #2. Gotta get it done!
Currently reading: Listening to Foundation by Isaac Asimov. Recommended by Orson Scott Card, author of Ender’s Game in the afterward of the audiobook version. Ender’s Game is by far one of my absolute favorite Sci Fi books I have ever read, and it’s one book I wish I could read without having knowledge of the ending.
Substack Read of the week: This poem by Natasha Mila, in regards to current world affairs. This essay by Joy Nicholas about traveling somewhere twice in 18 years, and having two completely different experiences.
All the feels on this one Rose. So relatable! Every part of it.
Ahhh Rose, this was great, heart racing, then warming, and oh so relatable. I've had those same pit-falling thoughts and feelings when I couldn't find my kiddos.