Lost & Found

And the winner for Dad of the Year goes to...

It felt like an hour, but it probably wasn’t eight minutes. I was truly helpless, scared and in a panic I hadn’t encountered before. All the scenarios racing through my mind. The story, the shame, my wife’s reaction. I’m not sure I could live this one down.

I lost my kid.

We visited the aquarium on a family vacation, a place we’ve frequented many times before. A place that was innocuous as the sea otters playing peek-a-boo on their backs floating through the eddy. But, of course, this day was stupid busy. I’m not sure if it was spring break or free sushi day, but it was wall to wall. This was a trip we’ve all been a part of: I’m paying some meaningful dough to go an [amusement, theme or water park/sporting event/museum/Chuck E. Cheese] that is so busy, I have to wait in lines nearly the whole time and can’t enjoy [rides/the game/exhibits, the ball pit] in any way. Dads everywhere know we should leave immediately, try to get a refund, get some ice cream and call it a day. But, no. Everybody is going to stay here for five hours, damn it, and you’re going to pretend to love every detail, even if you truly hate it inside. We’re a stubborn breed.

We perused a map and headed toward the touch pools. Sweet, we get to stand five deep to get the privilege of stroking a starfish, talking to a biology major who knows a helluva lot about crustaceans. My oldest is clinging to me like a fungus from The Last of Us infected, while my 3-year-old Ella is trying to outrun us like a surviving human. [Awesome show, by the way. Gives a whole new perspective on becoming a minimalist and eating jerky for every meal.]

We scrambled up the stairs, and Ella beelined to a playground area that was abound with sniffly, snotty toddlers. She dashed into a tunnel as I settled into my dad supervision role. Go on, get crazy while I stay a solid, but not overly-clingy 15 feet away. I looked down at my other daughter Saoirse, and glanced back up to see Ella come out the other side of some makeshift ocean cave. But she didn’t. Or maybe… Is that her? No, that’s a different kid. Wait, is she over… Um. OK. I can’t see her. I start circling, simply expecting her to pop out, laughing and telling me to “come see this!”

OK. Breathe. Everything is fine. Oh, shit. My other daughter is screaming “WE’RE NEVER GOING TO FIND MY SISTER EVER AGAIN!” Sorry folks, I’m her father, and I’m trying the best I can. OK, shit. Let’s retrace our steps. I turn into ninja mode, looking around corners, seeing through keyholes in the crowd. I’ve got the Terminator radar mode activated, searching for life form Ella. But no luck. I’m starting to repeat Ella’s name at a louder and louder pitch (not just volume), and I find myself squealing some kind of high note reminiscent of a teenage girl going down a rollercoaster. The grip on my daughter Saoirse is probably cutting off circulation as I drag her through the crowd on this fearful mission. Everybody seems to be going in the opposite direction, and I’m literally bumping into every stroller, hand bag, backpack and shark balloon. I can actually hear the bioluminescent jelly fish all laughing in unison at my plight despite having no single centralized brain.

I finally find someone who is obsessed with fish and has a cool branded jacket. “Um, this is weird. I’m not sure how… I’m a good dad, I swear. But… I lost my kid.” I could actually hear Saoirse’s respect meter for me just plummet.

“Ella?,” he says, with a smirk, feeling sorry for this poor schmuck. “Yes!,” I scream in that same soprano. He leads me out of the exhibit, across the wing, down the escalator, and toward the admin desk near the exit of the building.

And there she is. Massive breath in. Feeling returning to extremities. Smiling, Ella is sitting behind a hightop desk, watching a short-form ocean documentary via an iPad in her lap. “Hey, dad, I’m learning about sharks!” It’s as if she had no idea I was five seconds away from contacting the FBI, Walker Texas Ranger and Scooby Doo to find my child. I bear hug her like some scene out of the movies, and she says something like, “Dad, you’re squeezing me too hard.”

I profusely thanked everyone in a 20-foot radius. “This actually happens all the time,” said the staff member that originally helped me. He was either telling the truth, straight up scoffing at the modern day parents of the world, or he was lying, trying to make this doofus save a little pride. Either way, it wasn’t good. My other daughter is smiling from ear to ear, something she definitely won’t admit to one day. “We were so scared, Ella,” I say. “What happened?!” She doesn’t sense the concern or urgency. “I played. I came here. I now know what sharks eat. Let’s go see the penguins!”

Screw the penguins, I said in my mind. I had that same feeling in my stomach as when you almost fall, but catch yourself at the last minute. I was frazzled, and the last thing I wanted to see was some waddling, flightless bird grab sardines out of the air. But I did just misplace my human daughter among complete strangers, so I kind of owed her one. As we walked toward the next exhibit, I peppered Ella with questions. Did someone find you? Where did you go? Were you scared? She wasn’t having any of this interrogation and instead asked for a much-needed snack.

I spent the remainder of the morning replaying the events inside my head. I wondered if I could have done anything differently, or if this really was just bad luck in a tough situation. On one hand, I hoped Ella would quickly forget this fiasco. But on the other, I was proud of the way she handled the situation, all things considered. This is also the same girl that has a full-blown meltdown if ketchup touches her chicken nuggets on the dinner plate.

Later that day, I confessed to my wife (knowing that if I didn’t, one of my kids would surely let the secret slip). Fortunately, Ella was sitting next to us, so I couldn’t really dramatize the ending. All’s well that ends well, even if my wife was a bit shocked by the whole story. It could have happened to anyone, she admitted, as my shame and embarrassment slightly subsided. “But you should have just left if it was that busy,” she said.

I know. All dads know. But it’s the principle. We’re getting our money’s worth. Even if it means losing a family member for a few minutes.