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Abstract

p, exited his unsecured bedroom, reached and turned the handle of the unlocked front door, and he was off. Out of sight before anyone missed him.I watched as Jack stopped at a street corner and cars whizzed past him. Would he be hit? Miraculously no, he made it across. He reached the park but dropped his walking stick as he approached the swings and tumbled down concrete steps, landing on his head. Fortunately, Jack’s grandmother guessed where he may have wandered to, and came upon him just after the fall, as two strangers appeared bent over him, seemingly to help. Jack was rushed to the hospital for stitches, and will fully recover. What happens to Kate and Toby remains to be seen.They were lucky, Jack could have easily been killed or kidnapped. As I watched Jack making his way across the street my memories overwhelmed me and I could feel the tears running down my face. They wouldn’t stop. I had been whisked back once again to a cold, Sunday afternoon in January, more than 35 years ago.As the daughter of an Episcopal priest, I felt it was important to take my children to church. At least, I wanted them to have exposure to a traditional religious upbringing. They could choose if they wanted to attend church or not when they were older. My husband had no religious affiliation or exposure to church whatsoever growing up but had promised me when we had children he would attend church with me, so that they might have the experience to later make an informed choice.He NEVER attempted once to keep his promise. This caused a serious fracture in our relationship early on. That January day was particularly cold, nonetheless, I had gotten up, dressed my daughter in a pretty little cotton dress, and tights, bundled her in a coat and hat and she and I had gone to church. She was 18 months old.Upon returning home, I discovered my husband stoned on pot, watching a golf tournament, not unusual. I fed my daughter lunch, as my husband announced he wanted to grill out that night, but we were out of charcoal. I was midway through my second pregnancy and had much to do to get things in order to begin the workweek. Tired, but knowing he couldn’t drive, I agreed to run to the neighborhood store for a bag of charcoal, leaving our daughter in his care.I’m not sure why our front door wasn’t locked. Perhaps my husband failed to lock it when he had retrieved the morning paper. I always went out the back door to my car in the driveway. I don’t think either one of us knew our 18 month old could reach, much less turn the front door handle.This errand may have taken me ten minutes. Our house was only the second one up from the bottom of our side street, which was connected to the main street in our subdivision.Imagine my shock and terror as I turned the corner onto my street and saw my 18-month-old daughter strolling down the middle of the street, alone, in a thin cotton dress in January.At the very sa

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me moment, I saw a car coming from the other direction right toward her, screech to a stop, a strange man I didn’t know, jump out and run to her before I could even stop my car. Crying hysterically before I could exit my vehicle to rescue my child, it was quickly apparent the other driver had stopped to try and help. He didn’t know us but knew an unattended toddler had no business out in the cold wandering alone down the street.The man handed her to me with no questions as it was quite apparent she was my child. Not only due to my emotional state, but she looked just like me. At this point, neighbors were beginning to peer out of their front doors. You could hear them opening and closing. But where was my husband? How did our child get out of the house alone? To wander away, or be struck by a car? Kidnapped? What could have happened to him?At that moment, he appeared at our front door with a puzzled look on his face. He had no idea our daughter was gone. None. Seeing me hysterically crying, holding her, my car in the middle of the street, I could see from his expression he was clueless. He walked through the yard still trying to understand what had occurred, he looked quizzingly at me, as though I should provide him with an explanation.Wasn’t it obvious? He wasn’t watching our child. She simply walked out of the house through the yard and was making her way down the street. Yet, I had to explain through my sobs what had transpired. Then I just stared at him.I thanked the other driver, handed my daughter to my husband, retrieved my car, and parked it. We went inside where I said nothing. I only looked at him. Fumbling for words, he said he had no idea she was gone, or how she got out. It was only when he heard doors closing that he got up from the golf tournament to see what was going on.I said nothing. What was there to say? The words were written all over my mascara-smeared face. I picked up our daughter, took her to her room, and put her down for a nap.I never said anything to my husband about that incident. Neither did he tell me he was sorry. It didn’t stop his pot smoking, nor did it prevent him from tuning out the kids when he wanted to do something else. If you have followed me, you know by now, I wasn’t a complainer, apparently not even when my child’s life was at stake.At that time we had been married exactly 27 and 1/2 months. And another nail had been driven into what became the coffin for our marriage. Please don’t ask me why I stayed 36 more years. I have no answer.But tonight, as occasionally happens when I least expect it, something reminded me of that day. I must still be traumatized. I sit here quietly alone, my choice. I would do well to discontinue mothballing so many of these memories. Reflecting on them helps me realize I was right to leave.My marriage died inch by inch. That particular day though, it ran through a couple of feet.</article></body>

This Is Us Was Too Real Tonight

It reminded me of when my husband allowed our 1-year-old to wander away.

If you aren’t a fan or don’t watch This Is Us this story won’t resonate as much with you. If you are a viewer, you are probably extremely sad, as am I, this is the show’s last season.

I think one reason for the show’s success is because at times it’s very real, too real. Enough so that you can completely relate to what is going on with the characters. Their problems at times seem so ordinary, almost identical to some of our own. That has never been more true than it was for me tonight.

It brought back a long-ago memory. Not one I dwell on, and very rarely think of interestingly, unless something triggers it, as was the case tonight.

One of the main characters in the show is the sister, Kate. She is married to Toby, and recently their marriage has frayed, as they lived in LA, but he took a job in San Francisco where he hopes she will join him. However, she doesn’t want to move. Kate wants Toby to return to LA, even at a lesser salary, although he loves his dream job in San Francisco. Doesn’t this sound ordinary and familiar? As I said, such problems we could almost all imagine ourselves having to cope with.

Kate and Toby have a toddler son, Jack, who is blind. In tonight’s episode, there was chaos in their home, as Toby was in LA for a family party being held at Kate and Toby’s house in LA. Her mom and her husband, her siblings, etc. were all present for the event. There had been a leak problem in that house that had been an issue before. Despite Kate’s nagging, Toby had failed to correctly address it. While trying to get the dinner together, the leak once again came seeping through the kitchen ceiling. This created even more tension in the troubled relationship.

A plumber was called, but before he arrived, the same leak began causing problems in an upstairs bedroom. As everyone ran to address it, Kate called out to Toby, who was watching their son Jack, to come help move the bed to prevent damage. Upon leaving Jack alone in his room, in his haste, Toby failed to secure the baby gate.

In the meantime, the plumber arrived. When Kate let him in, she neglected to lock the front door back. This is all understandable. Chaos reigned in the house considering the situation. This is when we often make mistakes, when we are distracted, especially by an urgent situation.

Those of us who have had small children know they can get away from us if we take our eyes off of them for even a second. And that’s what happened tonight. Jack decided he wanted to go to the neighborhood park. He has a stick he uses to help him walk without bumping into, or tripping over things. He picked it up, exited his unsecured bedroom, reached and turned the handle of the unlocked front door, and he was off. Out of sight before anyone missed him.

I watched as Jack stopped at a street corner and cars whizzed past him. Would he be hit? Miraculously no, he made it across. He reached the park but dropped his walking stick as he approached the swings and tumbled down concrete steps, landing on his head. Fortunately, Jack’s grandmother guessed where he may have wandered to, and came upon him just after the fall, as two strangers appeared bent over him, seemingly to help. Jack was rushed to the hospital for stitches, and will fully recover. What happens to Kate and Toby remains to be seen.

They were lucky, Jack could have easily been killed or kidnapped. As I watched Jack making his way across the street my memories overwhelmed me and I could feel the tears running down my face. They wouldn’t stop. I had been whisked back once again to a cold, Sunday afternoon in January, more than 35 years ago.

As the daughter of an Episcopal priest, I felt it was important to take my children to church. At least, I wanted them to have exposure to a traditional religious upbringing. They could choose if they wanted to attend church or not when they were older. My husband had no religious affiliation or exposure to church whatsoever growing up but had promised me when we had children he would attend church with me, so that they might have the experience to later make an informed choice.

He NEVER attempted once to keep his promise. This caused a serious fracture in our relationship early on. That January day was particularly cold, nonetheless, I had gotten up, dressed my daughter in a pretty little cotton dress, and tights, bundled her in a coat and hat and she and I had gone to church. She was 18 months old.

Upon returning home, I discovered my husband stoned on pot, watching a golf tournament, not unusual. I fed my daughter lunch, as my husband announced he wanted to grill out that night, but we were out of charcoal. I was midway through my second pregnancy and had much to do to get things in order to begin the workweek. Tired, but knowing he couldn’t drive, I agreed to run to the neighborhood store for a bag of charcoal, leaving our daughter in his care.

I’m not sure why our front door wasn’t locked. Perhaps my husband failed to lock it when he had retrieved the morning paper. I always went out the back door to my car in the driveway. I don’t think either one of us knew our 18 month old could reach, much less turn the front door handle.

This errand may have taken me ten minutes. Our house was only the second one up from the bottom of our side street, which was connected to the main street in our subdivision.

Imagine my shock and terror as I turned the corner onto my street and saw my 18-month-old daughter strolling down the middle of the street, alone, in a thin cotton dress in January.

At the very same moment, I saw a car coming from the other direction right toward her, screech to a stop, a strange man I didn’t know, jump out and run to her before I could even stop my car. Crying hysterically before I could exit my vehicle to rescue my child, it was quickly apparent the other driver had stopped to try and help. He didn’t know us but knew an unattended toddler had no business out in the cold wandering alone down the street.

The man handed her to me with no questions as it was quite apparent she was my child. Not only due to my emotional state, but she looked just like me. At this point, neighbors were beginning to peer out of their front doors. You could hear them opening and closing. But where was my husband? How did our child get out of the house alone? To wander away, or be struck by a car? Kidnapped? What could have happened to him?

At that moment, he appeared at our front door with a puzzled look on his face. He had no idea our daughter was gone. None. Seeing me hysterically crying, holding her, my car in the middle of the street, I could see from his expression he was clueless. He walked through the yard still trying to understand what had occurred, he looked quizzingly at me, as though I should provide him with an explanation.

Wasn’t it obvious? He wasn’t watching our child. She simply walked out of the house through the yard and was making her way down the street. Yet, I had to explain through my sobs what had transpired. Then I just stared at him.

I thanked the other driver, handed my daughter to my husband, retrieved my car, and parked it. We went inside where I said nothing. I only looked at him. Fumbling for words, he said he had no idea she was gone, or how she got out. It was only when he heard doors closing that he got up from the golf tournament to see what was going on.

I said nothing. What was there to say? The words were written all over my mascara-smeared face. I picked up our daughter, took her to her room, and put her down for a nap.

I never said anything to my husband about that incident. Neither did he tell me he was sorry. It didn’t stop his pot smoking, nor did it prevent him from tuning out the kids when he wanted to do something else. If you have followed me, you know by now, I wasn’t a complainer, apparently not even when my child’s life was at stake.

At that time we had been married exactly 27 and 1/2 months. And another nail had been driven into what became the coffin for our marriage. Please don’t ask me why I stayed 36 more years. I have no answer.

But tonight, as occasionally happens when I least expect it, something reminded me of that day. I must still be traumatized. I sit here quietly alone, my choice. I would do well to discontinue mothballing so many of these memories. Reflecting on them helps me realize I was right to leave.

My marriage died inch by inch. That particular day though, it ran through a couple of feet.