Little Lost Alien

Some mornings things come up that can just bring everything to a grinding halt, especially when we are on the verge of running late and I can feel my stress level rising (see post: Last Minute Louie for a reminder of the humiliation I would suffer upon being late to school).

Julian woke up with a little alien figurine in hand, the one from the Toy Story movie, and had been carting it around all morning. He had told me four different times (at least, I lost count) that he was going to take it to school to show to his friend Liam.

"I think that's great, Julian," I said. I was trying to find socks that would fit Ian and I could have cared less, as long as he wasn't having a tantrum. He could have said, "Mom, I'm going to shove this alien up my nose," and he would have gotten the same response from me.

I find the socks, put shoes on me and them, I reach for my keys, then panic sets in. Julian is pacing the apartment.

"Mom, where's my alien?"

I almost say JC out loud but catch myself.

Then I ask a question that is mainly rhetorical. "Where did you leave it?"

"I don't know, I don't know, I don't know." He's pacing in and out of the bedrooms nervously, not really looking at anything.

I start poking around in his room while Ian is thundering around in his snow boots. Did I mention our downstairs neighbor is a saint?

I turn over every dumped out toy, rummage through the buckets of their Ikea toy shelves, crouch to look under the beds (hardwood floor, bad knees, not fun). Then I think to check out where he hides all his best booty: in his bed.

Sure enough, the alien in question was stuffed in one of the folds of his jungle comforter. I pick it up and hand it to him. He's visibly both relieved and awed by my toy-hunting skill.

"Oh, Mom," he smiles broadly, "you are so good at finding aliens!"

High praise, indeed.