On my hike down memory lane, I stumbled across this gem……….
Walk Of Wonder!
You know, I think not all women was born to be mothers. Some women revel in the experience, throwing themselves enthusiastically into the role. Living for their child’s every breath. Documenting each step they took. Boring others with photographs, and certificates, and prizes their kids have won.
Me, not so much.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved my kids, I really did. They brightened my life and filled it with untold joy, but, well, I was a little ‘off with the fairies’ so to speak.
‘Absentminded’ would be the right word to describe me. With the mind been totally AWOL on several occasions. Usually, if I was gardening, or sewing, or painting, sitting, being…
… Oh, yea, I forgot what I was going to say… um, right, about Sean.
On this particular day, while reading all about gardening, and tips for growing wonderful new varieties of plants, I suddenly became aware my two-year-old toddler was not around. I listened to hear his usual babbling and banging about, but the house was silent.
At the time, I was living a few miles out of Harare. In Zimbabwe, on a smallholding of about 12 acres. It was a beautiful place. An old fashioned farmhouse, with shiny red cement floors, and verandah.
A lush green lawn, surrounded by tall Msasa trees, and watered by pipes straight from the river. Excellent for gardeners, not so much for ditzy moms or their babies.
Having been lost in my reading, I now had a moment of foreboding. I called out to him, and walked from room to room, looking for him.
My stomach churned, my chest tightened, I could hardly breathe. Terrified, imagining his little body floating in the river I ran to the edge of it, then backed away. I didn’t want to see what I so feared.
Three times, I did it, calling his name, and then running away.
Eventually, I reached for the phone. Maybe the police could send a helicopter to look for him. Then, as I started to dial their number, I heard a commotion outside the house. The dogs barking excitedly, hands clapping, and the sound of singing.
I stepped outside, and joy flooded my entire being. There was a long line of men from the nearby village. They were dancing, and singing the praises of the little man they had found so far from his home. On the shoulders of the leader sat Sean, my precious child, as happy as Larry, laughing and clapping with them.
He lifted a chubby little hand and pointed at me,
” Dere da Momma!”
That was the beginning of the many pickles Sean got into throughout his life.
By the way, I was to hear those exact words from him many years later, but this time at a cop shop. But that’s a story for another day.