Inspired by my 20-minute writing exercise today around the theme: “If you can delete a memory, what will it be? Why?”

It was a perfect summer Saturday – Labour Day weekend.  Tim was working and I had planned to take my 3 young boys, plus one add-on friend (for good measure) to Centre Island for the day.  For those who know Toronto, this is sort of a classic, annual, summer adventure… taking the ferry to the Island and enjoying the small amusement park or even the beaches or trails.  Somehow summer was slipping away and we hadn’t made it yet – so we were off: me and the 4 boys (ages 2, 3 and two 6-year-olds).

As we were leaving, we ran into the boys “best friend,” babysitter and teenage neighbor, Jay.  Jay loved the Island (and my boys) and said he would try to meet up with us later that afternoon. 

Most of the day was what you’d expect: boys racing from ride to ride, eating too much sugar, laughing with each other… We had a picnic and mostly just let the day take us, hardly a care in the world.

Toward the end of the day, Jay did meet us.  We were running out of steam, but the kids rallied so they could enjoy some time with him.  He spent far too much money trying to win a huge stuffed sloth at a carnival game, and before long it was clearly time to start the long journey back. 

To get to Centre Island from our neighbourhood, you have to drive about 20 minutes downtown, find (and pay a hefty price) for parking, wait in a line for the next ferry, take a 15-20 minute ferry ride to the Island (and then, of course, do it all over again on the way home – which is always more challenging with tired, little people after a long day outside).

We started walking out of the amusement park – the kids teasing each other and Jay: laying across the railroad tracks like they are in a Tom & Jerry cartoon, hiding in bushes, the usual… It’s that time of day when most families have realized the fun and energy are waning and they are ready to depart so there is a heavy stream of people walking toward the ferry terminal.  After we exit the park and the crowd thins out slightly, I realize we are missing Flynn, my 3-year-old.

At first I assume he must be nearby – likely playing another trick on us.  Flynn has always been a unique child: prone to more extremes of feelings but not often in predictable ways.  His love language is physical touch – but he’s a quiet soul and more of an introvert.  I could see him taking a game like the hide-and-seek exit shenanigans too far.  I backtracked, calling out his name.  Luckily I had Jay along and he was able to watch the other kids play on a grassy patch so I could wander and call for Flynn without having 3 other little ones (and 1 teenager) in tow. 

After about 5 minutes of not finding him, a sense of panic started to raise within me.  I got more frantic, racing toward the ferry terminal, and calling his name.  I ran back into the park: searching and calling.  He was nowhere.

Now I have a keen love of true crime podcasts and anytime an incident takes a turn towards something that could be remotely grave, my mind will pull up the images of stories I’ve heard and this just feeds my panic and fear. 

Finally, I track down an employee near the ticket booth at the entrance.  By that point I’m teary-eyed and shaky.  It’s likely only been 15 or 20 minutes but I feel like hours have passed.  I explain to the teenage employee what is happening.  Luckily, he has a walkie-talkie style radio and is able to reach out to the network of associates across the park.  We get a response quickly and I speed-walk to find Flynn with another mom-type woman and a park employee.  He was back toward the little farm and petting zoo area – likely one of the last spots we had visited, and the most quiet and unpopulated part of the park.  Apparently when we had turned right at the exit (to walk to the ferry), he lost track of us and went the wrong way, wandering back into the park and toward the farm.

I broke down into tears, hugging and reassuring him that everything would be okay.  He honestly, seemed nonplussed.  I don’t know that he ever really felt unsafe or afraid – likely more confused and frustrated that he didn’t know where we were.

Unfortunately that was only the first time that we lost Flynn (yes, there have been others).  They always resolve similarly: me in panic, fear and eventual exhaustion from the emotional overload; he feeling confused and slightly annoyed about the inevitable attention, but never really worried or afraid.

But if I could delete this (and the others) from memory I would do it in an instant.  It doesn’t help me to be a better parent and worry, I find, is one of the more useless emotions.  But it’s an emotion that builds.  Like tannin in wine, it layers on and each future instance of heightened worry seems to immediately escalate to a near panic state.  Without this episode creating an elevated base for future worry-inducing parenting moments, I think I would be a calmer and more present parent.