Julie Jay: A child left ‘Home Alone’ seemed fun until I became a mom

Given the cost of flights three decades ago most people who went to America never bothered coming back. Still, it was a dream worth having.

My persistent attempts to get myself lost were constantly foiled by my twin brother, who had an annoying habit of reporting us missing at the slightest sniff of trouble. 

On more than one occasion, he marched us over to the customer information desk in Dunnes. He demanded an announcement over the intercom that two children matching our description had been found and could our mother pick us up. 

Every time my mother would arrive, looking less relieved to see us and more perplexed as to why my brother saw fit to report her to the relevant authorities when the only crime she had committed was standing approximately three metres away from us for a 20-second period.

As a parent, my attitude towards lost children, a la Macaulay Culkin, has now been turned on its head: the thought of my child being unattended in a hotel in New York is a nightmare that doesn’t bear thinking about; the only silver lining being the possibility of befriending Brenda Fricker in Central Park. 

There is no terror like the terror of not having eyes on your child, and it is a terror most of us experience at some point in our parenting journey.

In a moment of madness, I decided to take my four-year-old with me to the ‘big shop’ before our staycation, in what is surely the first sign I have temporarily lost what is left of my precarious sanity. 

It was a supermarket we weren’t familiar with in a big town where we knew no one, adding to the lunacy of this excursion. 

So I wandered around the aisles repeating ‘baby milk, baby milk, baby milk’, hoping that, like Beetlejuice, this incantation would result in baby milk appearing before me.

Ted was initially surprisingly co-operative, bar his insistence on getting cereals that contained sugar, which would have Willy Wonka questioning their nutritional value.

It was all going fine until the freezer section, when I bent down to decide whether or not the children would eat a pepperoni pizza (spoiler alert, they did not). 

Turning around, I saw no sign of Ted, who had disappeared into thin air. I called his name and checked the next aisles, but no sign. I checked the bakery section a couple of metres away, but nothing. The blood drained from my body, and I broke into a run.

The supermarket itself was ginormous, so I enlisted the help of a staff member. As I described what Ted was wearing, it suddenly felt serious. 

Two mammies stopped to offer assistance, and we went from aisle to aisle, calling Ted’s name over and over, hoping against hope that he was just playing a terrible trick on me.

In these moments of terror, you promise God that if your child is OK, you won’t ever give out to them again. You also realise how inconsequential your comedy tour is and how it doesn’t matter how many views your last Instagram reel got. 

None of it matters as long as your children are safe. As more mammies got involved, my panic increased, because nobody was telling me I was being silly.

Losing your child is every parent’s worst nightmare, and I sensed they understood my fear as we scanned the area for a boy wearing a green top and orange shorts and pulling a basket full to the brim of coco pops.

And then I heard his voice.

‘Boo!’ he shouted, jumping out from behind a clothing rail of Bluey pyjamas and Paw Petrol t-shirts.

The relief that washed over me was almost physical, and I exhaled like a parent who could finally breathe again. But, of course, I was also furious with him. 

He had somehow made it from one end of the shop to the other without being spotted by the litany of staff and responsible citizens who had helped me on this manhunt. They were now gathered around us and collectively exhaling, too.

Of course, my promise to God made minutes earlier went out the window, and I proceeded to give out to Ted for running off. 

Bending down to his level (a tip I picked up from Princess Diana), I told him, in something between a raised voice and a manic whisper, that he was never to do that again. That I had thought he was lost. 

As my heart caught up with my head and I realised I was, indeed, holding my child’s arm and that he was OK, I had to stop myself from crying and pull myself together, because that’s what parents have to do.

I thanked everyone for their help and silently thanked God, too. I marched Ted over to the till, where he managed to sneak in a couple of unsupervised purchases, simply because I was still a bit shaken from it all and didn’t have the wherewithal to tell him no.

I realised I had left my keys at the till as we approached the car.

“First, you lose me, then you lose your keys,” said Ted, because he’s supportive like that.

When we returned to the till, the lady handed me the keys and said, “They’re easy to lose.”

I responded, “Oh, stop—he’s always running away from me.”

Her look of confusion told me she had, in fact, been referring to the keys, but I stand by my sentiment.

Although losing kids and keys may be common occurrences, that doesn’t make them less heartbreaking.

While I once idolised Kevin McAllister, I now fully sympathise with his mom, who just wanted a holiday in peace, which is surely not too much to ask when enduring the trials and tribulations of the big shop on the weekly.

So, if any children reading this could refrain from getting lost in the future, we would be eternally grateful, please and thanks.