Yesterday, I lost Griffin.
Yeah. I. Lost. Griffin.
I ran down to the basement to make the washer do another rinse cycle, and I was downstairs between five and ten minutes. I came back upstairs and Griffin was gone. Gone.
He's been taking to playing hide'n'go seek a lot lately, so I looked in all his regular hiding spots. Didn't find him. So, I looked again.
Still didn't find him.
So, I went around and made sure all the doors to outside were looked (and they all lock from the inside using a key); luckily, they were all locked.
So I went around again looking for Griffin. And then I got a little freaked out.
I started running around the house yelling, "Griffin, please come out, you're scaring Mommy!"
Still, no Griffin.
I crossed the baby gate into the kitchen. No Griffin. I opened Aaron's cave door and screamed into the room. No Griffin. I crossed the baby gate to upstairs and screamed and looked for him. No Griffin. I ran down to the basement. No Griffin.
After a good 15 to 20 minutes of looking, I called Aaron at work (who should have been home by that time anyway) and told him I couldn't find Griffin. He was irritated and said he was on his way home.
I looked and cried and looked and cried. I flipped over the couch and the loveseat. I looked in cabinets, showers, and impossibly small spaces. I looked under tables and over dressers, and screamed to Please! Come! Out! You! Are! Scaring! Me!
After another 20 minutes of looking, I called my parents.
:: sobbing :: "I can't find Griffin!"
"What do you mean you 'can't find Griffin'?"
"I can't find Griffin! I want to call 911, but he has to be in the house..."
"We're on our way over."
The I ran around the house looking some more for Griffin, sobbing and screaming the whole time. Finally, I heard a little something.
I ran into the playroom and it was louder. I flipped over the train table, and there was Griffin, crying, curled into a little ball with buckets of toys surrounding him to block the view of him being under there.
"I so sorry Mommy!"
And there we were, sobbing together.
He must've wedged himself in there really good and fallen asleep. And I swear, I looked under that damn table at least three times, and tried to move those buckets of toys around; but since the buckets were so wedged and so deep, I figured there was no way he was under there.
So, yeah. I'm a bad mom. I lost my kid in our own damn house.