Story Time

It's story time, folks.

Gather 'round. Grab your juice box and fruit snacks, 'cause this might take a minute.

. . .

For starters, I need to give you a tinsy bit of information. Hannah has been evaluated and qualified for some special education classes. I won't go into mounds of detail, but she has a moderate speech delay and some behavioral issues that need to be addressed.

This afternoon, I was scheduled to meet with her team of totally-awesome teachers in order to set some goals and decide the best classroom setting for Hannah.

Like a crazy person, I decided I wanted to head over to Gordman's before her appointment to round up some things for Curtis' birthday this weekend. We didn't have a whole bunch of time, but plenty for a quick trip. No biggie. We'd be just fine.

Yes?

Hannah usually wears a piggie-backpack-leash-hybrid-thing because she LOVES to run away and wander off. She normally loves to wear her pig, but today she wasn't gonna have it. Since she had been doing much better at staying by me at the store, I decided to let it slide.

She commandeered a shopping cart and started pushing it around behind me {I had Curtis is his stroller}. Sweet.

Totally cool.

She could push around our items AND keep herself busy. Perfect. She only nearly squashed one employee and bumped into my heels and rear end three times. . . so it seemed like a success.

After trying on some clothes, I decided to put an item back on the shelf. On the way, I stopped to look at a darling polka dot shirt {I love me some polka dots}. Hannah then ran into my butt with the cart, so I knew she was right there. As I was putting the shirt back on the rack, I idly thought to myself, "I wonder if Hannah could actually disappear in the four seconds it has taken me to look at this shirt. I hear people say that kids can disappear in milliseconds but I wonder if it's true. I kinda doubt it."

I called to Hannah so she knew we were moving on and she could keep pushing the cart.

{crickets chirping}

"Hannah?"

I turned around and she wasn't at the cart. I poked my head out into the aisle and couldn't see her.

"Oh, that little stink," I thought. "She's probably hiding in the clothes rack."

I got down on my hands and knees but didn't see any feet hiding anywhere near by. I started calling her name a little louder at this point, all the while thinking to myself, "I had my back turned for TWO. SECONDS. Where in the heck could she have gone?! Did she have on a jet pack I didn't know about?"

I went back to the dressing room to see if the sweet lady there had seen her.

Nope.

The lady organizing the shoes hadn't seen her, either.

What the heck.

. . .

It was probably only about 3 minutes after the Amber Alert was issued {I mean, honestly. I felt so dumb} that they found her in the back corner of the store. I started heading over that way, thanking the nearby employees and customers that had helped. All of a sudden, I saw a pink blur flash between some clothes racks along the back wall. Moments later, I caught a glimpse of a male employee running in the same direction.

"Yup. That's her," I sheepishly said. I also may have added the helpful advice to "just throw something at her" but it was under my breath. I clearly need a bolas in my purse.

They finally caught her because my ugly-yelling distracted her for a brief moment; long enough for them to catch up. As I tried to heave her into the shopping cart, I "calmly" explained that her privileges had long since expired. Naturally, she began a category 5 tantrum. I chose that moment to also explain that because she ran away, we were no longer going to buy her book that she wanted.

Ooooh, lawzy.

She was not pleased. But, hey, neither was I.

I gathered up the splintered remains of my sanity and bee lined it to the checkout. The cashier and I attempted friendly small-talk, but it was kinda hard to hear each other over Hannah's episode. I got Hannah out of the cart and headed for the door. The cashier said, "Have a great day! And good luck with. . . "

I could tell she ran out of steam because she didn't want to offend me. She was probably a little hesitant to say "your demon child" for obvious reasons.

My near-psychotic laugh and nod of understanding must have put  her at ease.

Thanks, lady.

I'm a-gonna need it.

. . . . .

Thanks to the Amber Alert fiasco, we were now going to be late for our IEP {the meeting I told you about earlier}. However, thanks to my speedy vehicular mobile unit, we arrived just in time.

Understandably, Curtis was getting tired and ornery. I was, too.

After about 45 minutes, we were finishing up. Her teachers seemed like the bee's knees and I was eager to see Hannah's classroom. We headed down the hallway and quietly entered the classroom where a 4-year-old class was in session. Well, Hannah had vehemently refused to hold my hand this whole time {screaming and yelling if I so much as reached for her hand}, so she took off like a bullet from a gun once we got in the room. She bobbed and weaved between students to get to the box of pointing sticks next to the teacher.

Subtle, Hannah. Very subtle.

After managing to get her to put the stuff down and come back {no small feat, I assure you}, we went to look at the door where I would I drop her off and pick her up. That moment just so happened to coincide with the release of no fewer than 589,210 students into the hallway. Hannah saw her chance and wasted no time in taking it.

She wrenched her hand free from mine and joined the stream of children. Lugging Curtis in his car seat made me no match for her and I quickly lost her in the hubbub.

I eventually had to ditch Curtis in order to track her down. Thank heavens the teacher was there to watch him.

Thankfully, that particular hallway was a dead end and she ended up in a classroom full of older kids. I tried to be sneaky, but it's kinda hard to be stealthy when your kid is a professional dodge ball. If I went one way, she went the other. We went back and forth like that until a helpful young feller corralled her in the corner and I snatched her.



{photo source}

. . . . . .

To say that I was horrified today would be an understatement. To say that I was embarrassed beyond belief would definitely be true. Pretty sure I cried on the drive home, feeling overwhelmed and flustered. So, yeah, if you find yourself in a similar boat, you're not alone.

Join my club! I'm thinking of having embroidered life jackets and drinks with little umbrellas.

. . .

While I wrote this blog post, Hannah escaped out the sliding door into our un-fenced, unfinished backyard and I had to traipse through a winter's worth of dog poop and mud to haul her bum back in the house.

You guys. This is driving. me. absolutely. insane.

Helpy me.

Helpy her teachers.

She starts preschool tomorrow and I fear for the call saying, "Yeah, uh, your kid bolted out the door and hitchhiked to Colorado with a burly trucker named Ferdinand. We're sure she's fine. But, yeah. Can you come pick up her lunchbox?"

{hangs head in defeat}

. . .

So, yeah. Kids can disappear in 2.8 seconds. It's true.

The end.