I am sitting down, gasping for breath, trying to recover from my son’s tantrum, which has been happening on and off all day. My son is two. I call him “Bubsy”. He’s adorable, he’s precocious, he’s mischievous, and right now, he’s a soggy, sobbing mess upstairs, because I’ve failed him as a mother.
I cannot find his equivalent of a security blanket, his toy yellow mini cooper, from his Marmee. It’s been missing since about lunchtime, when he went outside with it, and came in without it. I’ve looked everywhere outside: in the garden (where I discovered several trampled lilies–thanks, kid), under the grating in the deck, on the swing, under the slide, and even on the other side of the fence, in case he flung it in a spasm of joy. No luck. I looked high and low inside the house, behind furniture, even under the stove. No luck. Once, I thought I’d found it, wedged between his toddler bed and the wall. “Bubsy, here it is!”, I yelled excitedly, which was a big mistake. It was the white Mini Cooper, looking deceptively yellow against the wood. Oh, the weeping that ensued.
As I type, still drawing deep breaths, I hear my toddler whimpering: “Marmee’s Mini Cooper. Find it. Find it.” He pauses, trying to calm himself. “No whining, no whining,” he murmurs, as if by minding his manners, he can will me to pull it out of thin air. Now he has reverted to throwing his less beloved cars around his room in anger. I’ll let it pass. I’m just grateful my four-month-old daughter, Zee, is sleeping.
In my mind are thoughts like: “If I have a shot of honey-flavored whiskey to help me cope with my son’s meltdown, am I a budding alcoholic?” and “One day I’ll slip on a toy mini cooper and break my back, and then my husband will have to both look after me and find the yellow Mini Cooper when it goes missing.”
Yeah, I think I need that drink.
–Ooh, I think I know where his toy car is! He dropped it down one of the garter snake holes in the yard. Maybe Target still carries yellow Mini Coopers.