I went to pick Rocco up from preschool yesterday and he wasn't there. A known Harry Houdini, I started panicking straight away. You know when your kid is missing and time moves like slow concrete and you think, "This is it. I will never see him again and I will be That Woman on the 6'o'clock news tonight."
Ten minutes I walked around, calling his name. I asked the teachers, other parents. Started to cry, rushed out onto the street shouting his name. Like, SHOUTING his name. Fifteen minutes. All the possibilities exploding in my brain.
Until suddenly I run up the ramp and there he was, inside. Sitting on the toilet taking a dump.
"Why are you crying, mum? I've been waiting for you to wipe my bum."
I still feel sick about it. Good thing is, it's re-booted my entire being. Am renewed. My son is alive! I get to keep him for another day! We got home, had showers, laughed about it over spaghetti, and I put him to bed.
I look up at midnight from my position in front of the fire and he's standing there. "Watchu doing, mum?"
I was putting the finishing touches to this piece over at MamaPop, about the Wiggles. My kids hate the Wiggles, but Rocco decided that in the middle of the night he LOVES the Wiggles, so he settled in my lap. To watch the Wiggles.
We argued, I won, and put him back to bed.
He kept getting up, demanding to watch the Wiggles. I told him he does not like the Wiggles. Repeat 3x.
Finally at 2.37am I crept into bed, trying my hardest not to wake Dave.
Rocco joined us at 2.38am, whispering in my ear. "Can I watch the Wiggles mum? I LOVE the Wiggles. They're so cute."
I laughed until the bed shook.
Do you have a lost child story? I heard some pearlers on the tweets last night.