It finally happened. I lost my kid.

I used to joke about losing my son, but on Saturday, getting in some father and son time at the kids’ museum, the joke was on me. 

We go all the time. My son knows the layout. He probably knows all four floors as well as he does our own house. But it was busy that day. With big kids and chaos. 

My kid likes the slides and nets and the tunnels that connect the floors. Usually, I crawl through with him because, well, I’m a responsible adult—not just some man/boy looking to have a good time.

But on Saturday, the place was jumping with birthday parties, big groups of big kids. Ten-year-old’s by the platoons. And there’s my guy, not quite four, ready to go.

I climbed up the first ladder with him, absorbing kicks to the head because some ten-year-old’s don’t know how to wait for old people. Anyway, I peeked in the tunnel. It was a mess. It was hot. The smell of feet ruled the day. I could hear the echoes of kids in the bowels of the museum. It would have been a good time to look at my little guy and tell him we’d sit this one out. Maybe go sit on the horsey or play at the barn. I miss the barn. The slow crawl of the little kids. The plodding toddlers who couldn't vanish just when you.. hey wait.

He was off. My kid was having none of that barn talk because he was going in. And maybe I was trying to prove to myself that I was a big kid’s father. So I took a breath and watched. I've never been a watcher. I've been a hoverer, a follower. A participant. But on that day I merely watched, as he scooted to the first tunnel. I winced, as arms and legs flew all over the place. In the heat of the moment, I shrugged. Okay, I’ll meet you at the slide. Right here.

And then my little Nemo was gone.

I stood there, well, more like hopped from one foot to the other. He was okay. He was okay. He was okay. But when he didn't emerge from the slide I figured he was just in the part where it ramps up some into a net. Nope. I checked the slid again. Nope.

What have I done? He's just a little boy! He's not even four yet!

Two minutes later I was climbing up and going in. He was really gone. I pictured him, curled up and scared in the darkness of the tunnels. Gripped with panic, I fought my way through the feet and knees coming my way.

I called for my kid. Nothing. I ran down to the next level. He wasn’t there either. My heart pounded, thoughts of those heathen kids trampling him. I ran back up the tower and plunged into the tunnels, calling out frantically. I may or may not have jerked a few kids out of the way. I scooted and wiggled, boot camp style through the tunnels. Still no kid.

Back down to the next level, by then I noticed a huddle of mom’s deciding whether or not to laugh at me. But I had no time for them, searching through the sea of kids, I still couldn’t find him. 

And that was when my wife showed up at my elbow. Smiling.

Smiling. How could she smile at a time like this? And who is she waving to? Oh, up there. My kid. Right there.

I’m coming, little buddy! I dashed up and hugged him. He smiled. "You didn't know where I was?"

He was unscathed and unfazed by it all. And I was proud of him, the way he handled himself. I hear a lot about kids with older brothers having to keep up, and maybe he was just keeping up with the older kids. But for a few minutes, I was terrified. 

Why My Mom Couldn't Have Nice Things

When I was maybe five, my mom bought a brand new Toyota Corolla. It was her first new car, a tiny four-door gas sipper with shiny brown paint and four matching tires. This was definitely a step up for her, a young nurse, and a few days after she got it she came out twirling the keys and told us to put on our bathing suits, we were going to the lake.

For once we had a car that would make the trip. My older sister took her place up front. I stretched out in the back, admiring seats without stains or rips. There was no oil smell on the floorboards and no drooping tapestry above our heads. This, I thought, rubbing my grimy little hands over the seats, was something I could get used to.

My mom worked swing shifts, weekends, and I still remember those dark, predawn shuffles out to the car in the winter, teeth chattering as she coaxed her various crapshoot vehicles to crank to life in the cold. But all of that was behind us, now. It was summer, and I couldn’t tell you if the new car had AC, because Mom rolled down the windows, fiddling with the stereo and letting the wind blow in her hair.

Her dream car at the time was a Datsun 280ZX. But with that breeze and her good spirits we were all happy to settle. The music just right, and our zippy little Toyota was churning up the expressway. Life was good.

The lake was the lake. We spent a great summer day at the lake. That afternoon, packing up the Toyota, Mom even let us grab something from the snack bar for the way home. With my hair still wet and my toes still sandy, I was ready for sugar.

Big League Chew bubble gum caught my attention. With the bulging, cartoonish baseball batter on the re-sealable pouch, cocked back, ready knock a homer. resalable pouch, just like chewing tobacco. Even the gum inside was shredded, like chew. In the car I started packing it in my mouth. One pinch wasn’t enough. A blast of juicy sugar, I kept plugging away. My sister had her chips. Mom had her car. We were burned and spent and ready to get home.

I went on a binge, physically unable to stop packing the gum away. My jaw worked the mass. I pulled air through my nose, my throat plugged by the wad. As the miles piled up I continued on, pinching shreds of gum until there were only a few shreds left, not worth saving. And as tired as my jaw was, I wasn’t going to give up. I was a big leaguer. A few more labored chews and I got the last shred of gum in my mouth.

I sat back, my head against new interior of the car, chewing like livestock, watching the passing landscape. My sister turned around, offering up her Doritos. I loved Doritos. But the gum, it was still bursting with flavor.

But man, I really wanted those Doritos. So I peeked in the bag, wishing I didn’t have a pound of gum in my mouth. Being five, my decision making proceedure wasn't exactly complex. I liked sugar. I liked cheese. So I took a chip and thought, Why not?

Not bad. Another chip. Then three or four, until the crunchy Doritos began to mingle with the gob of bubble gum. Nope. Not good. Not good at all. I winced. Swallowed. The bubble gum flavor overpowered the cheese flavor. Gum wasn’t supposed to be crunchy. It tasted like I’d dropped it in the dirt and then picked it up and stuffed it back in my mouth. A few more chews and I knew I had to get rid of it.

I rolled my window down, stuck my head out, reared back and flung the wad from my mouth and into the wind. Much better. I sat back and enjoyed all the open space in my mouth. My jaw muscles ached from the workout.

By the time I polished off the rest of the chips, we were pulling down our street. A great day in the books. Everyone washed out from sun and sand. My sister was picking up her things from the floorboard. Mom told me to gather my trash and we headed for the house.

At the steps, Mom looked back at the car. Maybe she wanted to see it one last time that afternoon. Just see it out there on the street, shining in front of the house. But the way her brow slammed down. The way she tilted her head and said, “What is that?”

A hitch of panic in her voice. I followed her gaze to the Toyota. Her brand new car that she’d had less than a week. I couldn't remember seeing that basketball size splotch on the back fender.

What in the world is it? She asked again, this time dropping her things and marching for the car. I looked at my sister, who then followed Mom. My stomach sank. Or it could have been the toxic gum/Dorito mixture breaking down my stomach lining.

“Pete.”

She leaned closer, studying the splotch like a space meteor, which, it did sort of resemble, the shards of tortilla in the pinkish substance. 

“What did you do?”

She hadn't used that tone since the time I tore out the screen from the window so that I could use the frame to make a sword. I mumbled, “Gum. Chips."

"Why does it have—" she shook her head. It's a headshake I now know. One of absolute futility. One that means You know what? It doesn't matter. I'll never comprehend it anyway. 

And it was incomprehensible. Somehow my wad of Dorito bubble gum had clung to the car like Gorilla Glue, the chips working to give it just the right kind of grip. A smear of disgusting is what it was.

Mom did some muttering. About why she couldn’t have nice things. My sister gave me her best secret smirk, which she vanished into complete angelic solace when Mom whirled around, still confounded as to the how or whys. Why was I eating Doritos with bubble gum? I still don’t know. How did it stick to the car?

I didn’t have an answer to either one. But the sun and the wind had worked to spread the gum on the paint like peanut butter. Extra crunchy. It was going to stick.

I spent the rest of the evening picking Doritos out of gum. Gum off the car. I can't really say what happened next, but I'm pretty sure Mom imposed a strict, no gum policy for the backseat passengers. That was over thirty five years ago, but it was a lesson that uh, stuck. 

How to make a great paint remover.

Bedtime Stories

Like most households, we read books before bed. But lately the books aren't holding my son's full attention, so we’ve started making up our own stories. It all comes to life in the dark, and with his input, we've come up with some rather epic adventures all on our own.

We have Tooter Reuter, Tommy Two-Milks, Sally Simpson and Phillip Fatterwackle. And who can forget, the lovable lush, Johnny Junkfood.

Whatever the names, this is the cast of our ongoing saga. And what could be a better way to expand and explore what's in his little head? 

To say he's into it is an understatement. When the lights go out, my son snuggles up, his eyes wide and unblinking, staring at the ceiling. "Tell that one again!" He often pats me on the arm when he likes what he hears, saying, “More. Tell me more.”

He remembers every story we've made up, correcting me if I flub a line. He knows every detail. How Tommy Two-Milks got caught sneaking a milk up his shirt in class. How Tooter Reuter ate nothing but pizza for a month. How they went fishing and hooked a legendary fish called Pearly Purple, who snapped the line and made a narrow escape. Imagination, a good thing, right?

Well, about that. I must have glossed over the rules, the part about these stories being tales, not to be tried in real life. And the tales weren't just bedtime stories anymore. I was telling them at breakfast, while getting dressed, at dinnertime. And somewhere, along the way, I got sloppy. 

It started when with the tree climbing. He wanted to go up, way up high. "Like Tooter Reuter, Daddy." Then on the way to school, I fumbled through a hurried tale of how Tooter Reuter and Johnny Junkfood played a gag, putting rocks into Tommy’s book bag. Are you rolling your eyes? My wife is, because that was the day my son put rocks in a classmates boot.

Oops.

Storytelling gone wrong. Who knew? My wife knew, she explained, but I must have not heard the warnings over the clank of sword fighting and all the laughter. But she was right, it had gone too far. So I explained to our son that these stories are fiction and not to be acted out. That when Tooter climbs the tallest tree to the top, then uses his blanket as a parachute to float back down, it's make believe. I edited all the fun offending chapters. Now, I run each word through a mental filter, taking pains to find some kind of moral to each tale that enters my head. 

But I can't help feeling censored. My wife over there coughing when I skirt around her code of standards. I explain how any good story needs conflict. Oh, I found me some conflict.

So finally, amidst the criticism, like any prima donna Hollywood actress, I walked. I relinquished storytelling duty to my wife. Yawn. I’ll summarize.

Sally Simpson is perfect. She uses her manners and the teacher loves her. She gets to do all the fun chores in class because she’s nice and polite. All the boys need to follow suit.

There was probably more but my son and I dozed off. But hey, at least it puts him to sleep...

All Boy...All the Time...

My son is really into being a boy. He likes spears, daggers, swords, dinosaurs. My wife still likes to paint his toenails and the result is a glam-rock spear hunter traipsing down the hallway. 

What else. Well, he loves his bike, pirates, chainsaws and diggers. But he really likes his penis.

Oh yes, he's all too aware of what's down there these days.  He knows that he has it and he’s not afraid to “let it breathe”. 

We’ve set some ground rules for this type of "breathing". Explaining that it's only acceptable to drop trou at home, and for the love of God not at the dinner table. Sometimes he finds it funny. Other times he gets frustrated with it. Recently, we switched to boxer briefs and that seems to have helped some.

I’m sure hope it’s normal. I mean, he’s found it. It’s not going anywhere. Welcome to the club, dude.

My wife is a little more uncomfortable with his tugging than I am. He’s only three, so he’s got plenty of time to adapt. My main concern is school. But so far we haven’t had any letting it breathe complaints. So at least he's keeping his business to himself, right?  I’m sure they’d let us know...