One day when Jimmy was 3, we went to a large, crowded playground with two other Moms and a group of 9 children.  Other than Jake, who was a baby in a stroller, Jimmy was the youngest of the group.  The kids were playing near the entrance to the playground and had all stayed together the entire time we were there.  I noticed a man standing at the entrance that had no children with him.  I didn’t think much of it until I looked away for a bit too long to get something for Jake and looked back up only to realize Jimmy was not with the rest of the kids anymore.  The man was gone also.  I usually am not one to jump to the worst conclusion but, at that moment, I was convinced that the man had grabbed Jimmy.

What happened next is at the same time a blur and a very vivid image, even though it doesn’t seem possible to be both.  What I remember most is the feeling that everything was spinning around me.  Spinning and spinning and spinning.  Horribly whizzing by like I was on a broken carnival ride that was getting faster and faster and just wouldn’t stop.  Everything seemed dark, even though it was the middle of the day.  It seemed like a nightmare, like I wasn’t really there.

The entire playground is covered in deep mulch that is nearly impossible to push a stroller through but somehow that day I pushed that stroller at full speed throughout the playground frantically scanning every child, praying to see the shirt he was wearing.  For some reason I looked at shirts, not faces.  I guess I thought I could spot a color quicker than looking at each face.  When I got to the other end of the playground, I found Jimmy.  Sitting in a pretend bus at the edge of the woods, happily playing.  He had no idea why I was on the verge of tears.

This seemed like an eternity.  It was probably 4 minutes.

On July 21, a high school classmate’s 16 year old niece disappeared.  My heart ached for her family.  Missing a child for not 4 minutes but 4 WEEKS.  28 days.  672 hours.  40,320 minutes.  2,419,200 seconds.  And I’m sure her parents will always remember every single one of those torturous seconds.  The agony.  The panic.  The pain.  The prayers.  The doubt.  The hope.  The hopelessness.  The unknown.  The spinning.  I truly can’t imagine how unbearable that would be.  Not knowing where she was, if they’d ever see her again.

She is 16.  Jimmy is now 16.  What would I do if he disappeared like that.  Would I go check that pretend bus again??  Would I look for his shirt on every person that I walked by?  Would the spinning feeling ever stop?

I’ve never met the missing teen, but I felt like I knew her through the ordeal. Through the thousands who prayed and offered suggestions or words of encouragement.  The kind souls that passed out flyers or shared her information on Facebook, Twitter, email and any other way possible.  She has so many, many people that care about her.  People that wanted this to be over before her parents had to endure the 2,419,201st second of worry.

The best post showed up in my newsfeed last night on Facebook.  The teen was found, safe and sound.  About 1,000 miles from home.  But safe.  I went to bed thinking how the parents must be feeling.  The anticipation of picking her up.  Knowing they will get to see her again, hug her, tell her they love her.  The incredible, indescribable relief.

The spinning is over.

One day when Jimmy was little, he came running up to me and excitedly exclaimed,

“I’m sitting a goody sample!” 

I asked him to repeat what he said, but even when he said it very slowly (with frustration at Mom for not understanding), it still sounded the same.  I’m.  Sitting.  A.  Goody.  Sample.  I couldn’t figure out what in the world he was talking about.

I finally realized what he meant!

As the oldest, I often told him to make sure his behavior “set a good example” for his younger brothers.

Jimmy, you still sit the goodest sample.

My youngest, Greg, was having trouble falling asleep so I told him he’d better try harder or I’d sing Rock-a-bye-baby. He ran away screaming “Nooooo! Noo! Noo! I’ll sleep!” We both laughed.  Strange reaction to an offer for a lullaby, right?  (And no, my singing isn’t quite that bad.) He reacted that way because we have a running joke about how terrifying some children’s songs and stories are if you really think about the lyrics.

Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree tops.

When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.

When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.

And down will come baby, cradle and all.

I’m going to put you in a tree on a windy night and you are going to fall.  Sleep well.

Then you have the happy little party song and dance Ring-a-round a Rosie.  So much fun to spin around with your friends and then giggle while you lay on the floor at the end.

Ring-a-round a rosie,

A pocket full of posies,

Ashes! Ashes! (or Atishoo! Atishoo! in the original version)

We all fall down.

While there are different interpretations, many think this cute little song is referring to the Bubonic plague. I don’t think it would be as popular if the author had been more direct with the lyrics.

Red rosie colored rash,

Herbs to ward off infection,

Sneezing! Sneezing!

We all will die. 

One day I was asked to read a nursery rhyme to a group of children I was babysitting.  It was called “Oranges and Lemons.”  Innocent enough, right?   It was until I got to the last two lines.

Here comes a candle to light you to bed.

Here comes a chopper to chop off your head.

I fumbled with my words and managed to mutter something that sounded sort of like “here comes a chopper whirling ’round your head.”  Luckily no one realized that helicopters hadn’t been invented when this nursery rhyme was written.  Out of curiosity, I googled the meaning.  Public execution.

Mother Goose was one sick Momma.

Well, it’s getting late so I will say…

Good night. 

Sleep tight. 

Don’t let the bed bugs bite.

Wait, there are BUGS in my bed????