Dogshow in the Department Store

It is pretty well documented by my own admission and by others that we’re 'the casual parents'. We let our children run wild in the park, let them take their clothes off if they want to and generally aren’t bothered about mess and dirt. We even let them bath and put themselves to sleep. For the most part, everything works out ok. Our kids never run that far in the park, we eventually locate their clothes and most stains don’t survive the wrath of a bucketful of bleach. We’ve also only had one near drowning in the bath and eventually after singing 18 renditions of ‘Fish Alive’ at the top of her lungs in her bed, my daughter will fall asleep. I know it. My husband knows. The neighbours know it. Even my son who has taken to sleeping with a pillow over his head knows it.

A few months ago, we had a parenting moment of terror that shook even us Harry casuals. It hasn't left my mind and I know my non-worrier husband who is pretty good about focusing forward and not dwelling on bad stuff… has thought about it too. He’s most certainly experienced the same coldsweaty-shuddery-panic-flashback as I have. He just doesn’t whine about it in quite the same way as I do. 



We were in the furniture section of a massive department store. The ferals were most indignant about being dragged along to what my son describes as “boring shopping”. All things considered though, they were behaving pretty well. The manager was still smiling at us and we hadn’t yet been asked to leave. There had been no tantrums or toilet Armageddons - which is probably why. It was a successful start to the shopping expedition. Of course we’d bribed them with the promise of all manner of sugary treats afterwards. We’re only human after all. Bribery and corruption is our Zuma method of parenting. Sadly, Gina Ford has never graced our doorstep. Ever. No offense to Ms. Ford, we’re just too lazy to read parenting books. Her books. Or any for that matter. It’s why we (ok so my husband) called the clinic the day after our first night of crying hell with our newborn son convinced there was something catastrophically wrong with him. The sister asked how the dummy was going. We were like… “What? We’re allowed to use a dummy? We didn’t know we were allowed to use a dummy.” We never looked back after that. We plugged our son’s mouth on that day and he sucked a dummy until just shy of three. We’re that kind of parents. The clueless-but-don’t-let-any-book-try-to tell-us-what-to-do kind of parents. Winging it mostly works for us, but when it fails. It fails spectacularly.

On the aforementioned shopping occasion, we were ordering a coffee table. Once we’d chosen it, we asked our bouncy pair of blondies to sit on the couch alongside the tills while we handled delivery date details and payment. Ok, so I'm sure this will come as a complete surprise, but I'm a bit of a talker. Apparently I'll find any opportunity to make inane small talk to whoever will listen. It’s a nervous thing I think. I begrudgingly acknowledge that I may have a slight problem and resolve to work on it. Talking it out clearly won’t help. That would be like drinking more gin because you’re an alcoholic. So maybe I should just learn to sit quietly in public places. The bus. The train. We’ll see. I’ll start in the New Year.

So I chattered on. My husband was just about to enter his pin into the credit card machine when my son pulled my sleeve and said, “Excuse me Mummy”. I was in the midst of a conversation about South Africa (naturally) and how the size of furniture compares to the midget sizes the British are used to – so I said to him: “Ollie, Mummy’s talking. Don’t interrupt me.” The oke is pretty good about listening and not interrupting his motor-mouth mother – but this time he was insistent and said in a little voice laced with panic, “Mummy, I am sorry but Gabriella is missing. I can’t find her anywhere.”

Those words dropped like lead. We both turned to look at the couch that our daughter had been merrily sitting on 5 minutes before. It was empty. We scanned the area around us. She wasn’t there. I started walking in between all the furniture. Methodically pacing aisle by aisle. My husband asked our son to stay put on the couch by the tills. He also started pacing the floor. All the staff spread out to look. The manager made a call to security to have all of the doors automatically locked. The department store is three floors with multiple exits. Panic started to to gnaw at all of us. Tangible and terrifying. I began by calling my daughter’s name quietly as I made my way past the linen section, past the crockery, past the home theatre equipment. I kept thinking she’d be there. Around the next corner. Looking at something shiny or pressing buttons she shouldn’t. She wasn’t. I started then to shout loudly -  like a banshee. I screamed her name, louder and louder. Other shoppers recognised our panic and started to help us to look. Sympathetic eyes. Serious faces. I tried to not be hysterical. Well more hysterical. I have a tendency for melodrama and I know that I can make a meal out of most things – but in this instance I had no barometer of the appropriate reaction to how to deal with a missing child. Does one ever? I was so freaked out it was difficult to focus. We kept calling hopefully to each other “you found her?” And the more times we’d hear “No", the levels of panic would rise.

It couldn’t have been more than seven minutes. Seven minutes that our two year old little girl was missing in a store full of strangers. Seven minutes of parenting hell. She was found by a staff member sitting on the bottom level of a bunk bed, not thirty metres from where we were. Perfectly unharmed. Completely unaware of the carnage happening in her midst. I burst into tears when I saw her. That precious little face. See I told you there’d be melodrama.

We left the store shaken and stirred. With a coffee table on order and both our children in tow. Tim and I then proceeded to drink alcohol at 11am in the morning, and the kids gorged themselves on all the treats they could eat. We praised our quick-thinking son for alerting us so quickly to his sister’s absence. We also bought him a big-ass plane. It was the least we could do. We basked in having things back to normal. Happy to be sitting at a table with our children. Both of them. They drive us completely batty. Virtually every day. But we wouldn’t swap them for all the polite, well-mannered angelic little children in the world. They’re our ferals – and that’s just how we like it.

From that day on, we’ve resolved never to take them furniture shopping, never to let either of them out of our sight and for me unless I’m alone, never to yak mindlessly to anyone behind a counter. Two of out of three we’ve managed so far. Still working on the third, but I figure 66% ain’t half bad. It’s better than half. It’s two-thirds better.

How they work best....as a crazy little pair.