“Oh sh!t, where’d he go?”

He was just at the end of the picture frame aisle. I was distracted by the signs reading “40% OFF!” and went into a reverie about all the unframed pictures I had at home. Was I doing them a disservice by allowing them to languish, unframed, in various places? Am I not an adult? Can’t I frame all the things? I looked away for a second, and like Doug Henning, Boychild disappeared but there weren’t any doves or anything.

I had to mention Doug Henning because I freakin’ loved him as a child and wanted more than anything to be a magician. David Copperfield was too slick. No. Give me Doug Henning, the groovy dude who had Weird Al hair and loads of spandex in his wardrobe. Swoon! Doug Henning, if you’re reading this and you’re still alive, thank you for rocking my pre-pubescent world. If you’re reading this and you’re not still alive, then you are truly magical, sir.

In the hours previous to my child disappearing, we were having a rough time. He had a serious case of the “no’s” coupled with a mild case of pinkeye. He threw a birdhouse at the cat, and got very angry with me when I told him not to do such a thing. This was typical for the day: he’d hit or throw (mostly at me), I’d tell him not to. He’d then cry because I told him not to. In his anger and frustration, he’d throw or hit again. Y’all, it was just a rough day. So I thought, “let’s get out of the house.” It seemed like a good idea, until he ran off.

Anyhow, I digress. My child disappeared in the craft store. I thought “he couldn’t have gone far.” So I went into the yarn aisle. No Boychild. Candle aisle? Nope. Employee bathroom area? Not there. Now I’m sweating, which is a real shame. See, I got jealous of all the Covid beards around and decided, what the heck, I’ll grow out my armpit hair. It’s my version of a Covid beard! The Corona pit-‘stache! No one ever sees me, anyway, so what’s the point. However, the Egyptians knew that shaving one’s pit hair drastically reduces one’s odeur, which is why both men and women shaved. Now I was dealing with the type of sweat that comes from losing one’s child in a store occurring in the type of hairy pits that only happen during a pandemic. I began to stink.

I tried to look around casually at first, like “Yeah, cool cool, I’m just browsing here. I’m not this incompetent parent who lost her child daydreaming about frames, so please don’t look at me.” Then I went down the Halloween aisle. No Boychild. Beads and geegaw aisle? No Boychild. At this point, my heart is racing. I’m like, “shit, what if someone grabbed him?” Then I thought, “No, that doesn’t happen. I mean, it does happen, but it’s really overblown in the media. Get your shit together before you pee yourself and find your child.” I was really torn between what I felt (terror) and what I had to express (an in-charge nonchalance). I wanted to run through the aisles screaming “BOYCHILD!!” at the top of my lungs, but I didn’t. I wasn’t sure if it was quite time to panic, and lord help me, I cannot overreact, even when I should.

I think a lot of women feel this way, this “I can’t freak out because I’ll cause a scene.”  We’ve been so conditioned to tone down our emotions, lest we be seen as “hysterical” or “overly-emotional.” I tend to err on the side of Stoicism in my reactions, precisely because I don’t want to be called hysterical (other than hysterically funny) and also because I don’t think people would believe me because I am female and my large emotions are suspect. I should’ve been shouting in the aisles. I didn’t.

I was saved by a nice bougie lady who said, “Are you looking for a child? Because he’s here at checkout.” I thanked her profusely and ran to the front of the store, where my child was casually chattin’ it up with the sales associate. Tellin’ her all about P.J. Masks and Owlette. I was so glad to see him. He was glad to see me, too. He said, “why did you leave? I couldn’t find you.” I scooped him up and told him never to run away from me again. I thought, “God, these people must think I’m the worst parent. I lost my kid in the store. I’m wearing ripped jeans and a novelty t-shirt. No makeup. Pit hair. Stanky. Just the worst.” But I’m not the worst, even though I question every parenting choice I make. And I have a sneaking suspicion that most parents have lost their kid in a store once or thrice. So maybe the next time I lose him I’ll have the moxie to disrupt the store with my loud calls of “BOYCHIIIIILLLLD!!” Or I can just tie him to a rope and fasten that rope around my waist until he’s grown so he can’t f*ckin’ run off. That’s really the best idea.