A Parent's Nightmare

My children and a neighbor's son were energetically playing on my front lawn. With the garage door raised, I sat, phone, cigarettes, and drinks nearby, watching them tromp on my grass and race up and down the sidewalk. The weather was customarily warm, the air sanguine, the quiet of the street punctured by occasional loud barks of laughter from my son, daughter, and their friend.

The little ones asked if they could call on my next door neighbor's children. With a nod and a wave, I watched them go to the door. It had been quiet at Bonnie's house all day, so I was not surprised when my neighbor's son announced that no one was home. My daughter, ever delighted by the beautiful perennials in Bonnie's garden and potted plants on her porch, plopped down to admire the flowers. My son and his friend dashed back to their bikes and started "racing" again.

My neighbor, Terry, drove by, and I gave him a leisurely wave. Anthony fell off his bike, so I hurried over to check on him. With the resiliency of youth, his pained yelp was almost immediately replaced by a desire to "go faster," and we righted his bike so he could continue his adventures.

I returned to the garage and grabbed a quick slip of soda. I took a moment to light my cigarette and put the lighter back in a safe place. I stepped from the garage because my "radar" had gone off. It was nearing a minute since I had actually held my daughter in my sight, and a part of me was instinctively anxious. I looked towards Bonnie's front porch, no more than five long paces from the corner of my garage….

My strong voice bellowed her name down the gentle tranquility of the street. I firmly expected her to appear from behind a potted plant or perhaps the corner of the house. I expected to hear her pretty little voice call "Mommy" in reply.

Now I was shouting her name at full volume, my tone insistent. Tossing the cigarette down, I rushed across the lawn to Bonnie's house, then to the side of house, then past the next house.

I asked my son and his friend if they had seen her, had she gone into the house while I had my back turned. Blankie? I reasoned. A toy, perhaps? Demanding that the boys follow me, we searched the house, calling to her. I opened doors, closets, checked under beds, seemingly silly places.

Back outside, for another mad dash up the street, this time passed several houses in both directions as an unfamiliar ache crept up my guts, clogged my lungs, and filled my throat. I called on God, I uttered profanities, I repeatedly screamed her name with a desperation that resonated in my ears. Had a car gone by? I thought crazily. How could someone have stopped and grabbed her from the front porch without my noticing? It couldn't be, I reasoned. She had to be here…somewhere!

This is not possible, my mind raged. This cannot be possible. This is not happening….

I charged for the phone and called the police. Perhaps five minutes had elapsed since I first realized she was missing, but every minute was another minute something terrible could be happening to her. I devolved into a creature that embodied everything I despised: horrified and helpless, I begged the police to come and continued screaming her name on the sidewalk, as if by some miracle my voice alone would compel her to magically appear before me.

I fluctuated from despondent and hysterical, pacing like a wounded lioness, to methodical and composed as I answered the rapid fire and determined questions of the dispatcher.

The boys ran around and shouted to her, looked through the house again while I stayed on the sidewalk. As the seconds ticked by, my need to be with her grew immeasurably, my guilt incalculably, and my heartache exponentially. Another neighbor, Kathy, came home, glanced over, and went inside. Little did I know Kathy also ran for her phone and began calling neighbors, sending up the alarm that my daughter was missing.

No more than a minute later, the police arrived. An officer and a separate car with a tracking dog screeched to a halt in front of me. Into the house we went, checking every toy cluttered room, past undone laundry and lunch dishes, vainly looking for her. I fumbled through the photo album to find a recent picture, my throat now harsh from crying. The police were preparing my daughter's information for an "Amber Alert."

My neighbor, Terry, who I had waved to earlier, received Kathy's call. He dropped everything and ran out of his house. Meanwhile, next door, my neighbor Bonnie, her children, and my daughter came from the back of their house to the kitchen for some juice. Bonnie's son noticed the police car lights flashing and they all made haste to the door.

Terry sighted my daughter, scooped her up, and brought her into my kitchen and arms. I dissolved into waves of sobs, clinging to her as if to make us one. She seemed to sense my need, because she curled into me and hugged me back, letting me kiss her and rock her to ease my own hurt, not hers.

In my mind, I had discounted the possibility of her going into Bonnie's house because I presumed Bonnie wasn't home. But that was exactly how it happened. They heard the doorbell ring, came from the back of the house, and when they opened it, my baby girl was sitting on the front porch. Being accustomed to playing at Bonnie's house, she breezed right in. All the time I was tearing myself apart in anguish, she was watching a movie in the back of the house and happily playing with Bonnie's children.

I now have a shock of gray hair to show for this experience. But if this is the only price I had to pay for it, I consider myself extremely grateful and wholly blessed. And my "radar," I discovered, now goes off almost instantly. ***

I'm glad my Mom let go of the apron strings long enough to let me have a childhood without checking in every five minutes.

And your age was? In what location were you raised? What year was this?

Those are all none of your business, but in the decades prior to our milk-carton paranoid nanny state, there was no meaningful differences in the numbers of child molesters, kidnappers, and murders.

Don't confuse increased media hype and other factors that change our perception for the facts. The difference today is in all the emotional "wallowing" over the rare, hyped tragedy.

Of course, back then, when Mommies let their kids walk to school, instead of chauffeuring them to avoid them from being kidnapped, kids were healthier, without the obesity and poor physical condition common today.

This story has a happy ending.........unfortunately so many don't.

Actually, only a minuscule few don't have a happy ending.

Why don't you just run along to a thread where you have some real intellectual input.

I was trying to offer some intellectual content to the irrational emotional hysteria on this thread.

Perhaps if it were (properly posted) in CHAT, it would be suited to the emotionalism, but in NEWS, it deserves some rational discussion.

If you don't like something another FReeper wrote, then don't stop to call her HYSTERICAL and her writing a piece of crapp.

Perhaps you should read what was written, which is that the actions of the person in the article were hysterical, not you.

And the article (not that of you or any Freeper) was described as "crap."

Calling such critism "personal attacks" is pretty silly.

I was responding to yours on not calling the police. In the case of the flasher, had I not called the police; had they not caught the guy -- the evidence (his bizarre underware) would never have been "evidence"; either.

If you are trying to make the point that police are called at the drop of a hat; and therefore its costing all of us; Yes, that's true -- just count up how many times people dial 911 in domestic violence cases; only to have the caller: rescind the charge of "domestic violence".

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