Here I am, giving Baby (decked in her uber-flattering horizontally-striped onesie) her morning bottle. Husband and Toddler are in the other room engaged in a frantic search for the missing Sponge Bob umbrella. So, Baby is gulping away peacefully and I am soaking up the Today Show (which is usually preempted by Diego). And then BAM. They run a lovely story about that New York teen who has “gone missing” in Myrtle Beach where she is/was Spring Breaking.
Now I look down at Baby, six months shy of her first birthday, and I literally say to her—out loud—“You’re not going.” And she looks up at me, blue eyes bright, and keeps gulping. And suddenly I realize that I might not end up being that cool, easy breezy mom I always told myself I’d be. And suddenly I have hazy flashbacks of my own spring breaks. And this confirms it. They are not going. Ever.
So here I am worrying about something that might become an issue, say, fourteen years from now. It would be a pinch more rational for me to worry about Toddler “going missing” in the halls of her future preschool. But so what? And maybe things will be different 1.4 decades from now, right? Maybe staycations will be all the rage and teens and college kids will have big, civilized sleepovers right in the comforts of their parents’ homes? And they will don horizontally-striped bikinis and lounge in backyards (or living rooms). And dutiful and doting parents will be able to keep that proverbial eye on their youth? Could happen, huh? A girl can dream. A mom can pray.
Bottle is done. Umbrella is found. Diego has replaced Matt Lauer. Moment is over.
But one thing hasn’t changed over the course of the last few minutes: they are not going.