She wanted to find the clowns, the nice clown that had fashioned a green balloon dragon with red wings. The back legs had come untwisted, and I was afraid of popping it if I tried fixing it myself. "Mommy, you didn't go to clown school," she informed me over her styrofoam cup of too-hot cocoa. It was only a little after 6:00 but already quite dark, and a chilly wind was whipping across the football field where the booths had been set up for the annual Pumpkin Fest.
"Okay," I told her. "Let's go find a clown and get your dragon fixed." She led the way along the path, weaving in and out of the crowd until she reached the narrow wooden staircase that led into the bowl. Predictably, it was jammed with people, but being little she slipped easily through. When the steps cleared I could see her taking off across the field in the direction of the clowns... but I didn't see any clowns. By the time her brother and I got to the bottom of the steps, I couldn't see her either.
We headed for the spot in the middle of the field where the clowns had been. I was trying to look everywhere at once, straining my ears for any sound that might be her voice. I didn't have a clue what might have attracted her attention, and there were a lot of choices -- and a lot of people everywhere. Fighting the urge to panic, I steered my son to the police information booth and told the first officer I saw that my seven-year-old daughter had been separated from us and I didn't know where she was.
It's an awful feeling to have to describe your missing child. Part of your brain fixates on America's Most Wanted, or any of the horrific headlines that seem to be a staple of the daily news. Which shirt did she end up wearing today? I have no idea how much she weighs! I managed to come up with something reasonable, and added, "And she's carrying a green and red balloon animal."
The officer repeated the description over his radio. Almost before he'd finished, I looked up and saw another officer leading her through the crowd to the information booth. She was crying pitifully. I thanked the officer and hugged her and saw the soggy remains of her dragon clutched in her fingers.
She was so upset she could hardly speak, but eventually the story came out. She'd set it down on the grass to get a closer look at the ice sculptures, and a teenaged boy had stomped on it just to hear it pop. Two teenaged girls had found her crying and led her to a police officer, who of course immediately connected the dots and brought her to us.
She cried all the way home, sobbed through her bath and shampoo, and was still a little weepy when I brought up the pie and hot cocoa for book time. While I read two chapters of The Silver Chair, she filled page after page with drawings of dragons, including one very detailed drawing of Draco ("He never even got to know what his name was!"), all bubbly and balloony and green and red, with a knot for his nose and a jaunty grin (the latter was strictly artistic license).
The actual remains of Draco were neatly laid in a tin box, decorated with her bright orange "I survived the Tent of Terror" sticker.
And for her birthday, she wants a clown to make her balloon animals. As long as there are no police involved, I guess I can deal with that.
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