Lost and Found

This past spring break, I decided to take my kids, Jesse 11 and Phoebe 9, back East to New York to visit family — I didn’t want them sitting around at home looking at their iPads for all that time, and this way they could sit around looking at their iPads with their cousins.

We were in the Avis Rental Car not far from JFK Airport when Jesse matter of factly called to me from the across the lounge that he needed to go back to the train — he left his backpack.

I chalked his ignorance about the intricacies of the New York subway system up to the fact that he mostly travels in minivans. I explained to him that it would be impossible to find the exact train we were on.

Then, just as matter of factly, he asked, if we could go to the lost and found. To which I responded, less matter of factly, “We’re in New York City! There’s no lost and found! You lost it, someone else found it!” I joked — not one laugh from the stoic, humorless crowd, by the way. Phoebe of course was in stitches because her brother was in tears.

I chalked his ignorance about the fact that we live in a terrible world and no one cares about his shit to the fact that I was raising him in a bubble.

By not watching the news in their presence, “la la la ing” over conversations in public about horrific human acts, I’ve made my kids completely unequipped to handle any kind of injustice done to them. Or even, judging by the fact that my son is now in a ball on the floor of the Avis rental lounge, a lost backpack.

I knew someday they’d have to find out the truth — but hoped it would come from my husband, or a police officer or my nanny, I mean wasn’t that what I was paying her for?! But now, I had to do it myself.

I calmly told him and Phoebe, avoiding eye contact of course, that they need to look after their belongings because in the real world, it’s every man for himself. It’s not like at school where all the discarded water bottles and sweatshirts are kept in a safe place. If you lose your stuff — it gets stolen. Fact. End of story.

Bubbles burst, lessons learned, we set off for our rental car. A Nissan Rogue in spot C176.

Phoebe counted the spots as we went, in a sing-song voice — god she was in a good mood. Starting with C1. I was carrying everything that wasn’t left on the train. Jesse can’t help me because he needs his hands to rant and rave at the injustice of it all. How could it be gone?! How? HOW?! And Phoebe can’t help me because… she won’t.

We are now at C73. The Nissan Rogue is in view just in the distance. The searing almost… electrical pain was shooting down my neck all the way to both big toes, setting off sparks with every step. We see a police officer and Jesse asks me to tell her about his backpack — see if we can go back to the train or the lost and found, proving he listened to not one thing I said and has more trust in the outside world than in his own mother. Before I can say, “Jesse give me a break”, he was talking to her.

“I lost a backpack,” Jesse tells her, hopefully. “Do you know how I could get it back?”

“I’m sorry… we’re raising him in a bubble,” I apologized to the police officer for my son’s lack of cynicism.

The cop took her walkie-talkie out and spoke into it. Someone spoke back. I shrunk at least an inch and somehow we were back in the C50’s. She returned to tell us that it just so happens a train has been shut down due to an unattended backpack. We’d have to take a train, four stops away — to the end of the line, Howard Beach. We were in a big city with thousands of irresponsible people — the odds of it being hisbackpack were pretty slim.

“Let’s go to Howard Beach,” I said. Because as much as I want him to know the world is a terrible place so he’ll be more careful, I want to be the person who saves the day. The person he cantrust. And I want him to like me. It’s complicated. I just hope Jesse remembers times like this, when I’m living in an abusive assisted living home situation and want out.

We got there, where the quarantined train sat at the end of the line, parked, evacuated and dark. After I was thoroughly questioned and even more thoroughly patted down by a member of the bomb squad, they opened the train doors and inside, was Jesse’s Camelback backpack.

Jesse happily grabbed it and when he returned, he looked at me, almost smug, his bubble back intact and said, “See mom? You were wrong! The world isn’t such a bad place!”

Lesson unlearned.

Tempted as I was to tell him the reason he got his backpack back was because of terrorism. Because people assumed there was a bomb in there. But then I’d have to explain terrorism and I’d done enough for today. I’ll leave that up to their nanny.