Watching a lost young girl eventually find her family made Cort Ruddy think about the importance of being able to depend on the kindness of strangers
—
Her eyes darted back and forth, not looking at any of us in particular, just looking for something, anything, that seemed familiar. She was walking back and forth, almost pacing, avoiding eye contact with all the strangers, at one moment wringing her hands and the next nervously scratching the roots of her wavy blond locks. Tears were welling, and starting to roll down her cheeks. The look of panic was unmistakable.
She couldn’t have been much more than 7 years old, maybe 8.
Whoever she was looking for, amidst the massive crowd that had descended on the marble columns and stone walls of the World War II Memorial in the nation’s capital on a 6o-degree Saturday in February, they were not there.
I was the first to notice her. As a parent, I know well the look of the lost child—I have seen it on my kids’ faces when they’ve gotten away from us for a spell. I also know the terror that goes through the parent’s mind and heart when we can’t find our kid, even for a moment.
“Dear,” I said to my wife, who was standing nearby, surrounded by our offspring. “This little girl looks lost.”
I intentionally addressed my wife loud enough for the little girl to hear, knowing that if she’d ever been briefed on what to do when lost, she’s likely been told to find a mom or someone in a uniform. Fathers and good men could begrudge that advice. I remembered reading something by a blogger friend on just this thing in the past few days.
I’d never thought much about telling my kids to find a mom, and what that says about men, especially the decent men out there. I was just playing the percentages. Like sending the lefty up to bat. It’s not personal; it’s not against me, or all men in general. It’s just math. Still I worry what that says about men to our children. Are we teaching them that, in their most urgent time of need, men aren’t to be trusted? Ever? (Unless they‘re wearing a uniform ).
Still, this was no time for such misgivings. We knew as parents, heck, as humans, we had to do something.
“Honey, are you lost?” my wife said.
The little girl barely acknowledged us. She was too scared and panicked to know we were trying to help her, that we were going to help, that we weren’t going to leave her side until she was safely with her family again.
It was a rhetorical question anyway. We knew the answer.
Looking around at all the people we could see—which was quite a few—there were some young couples, a group of foreign tourists, a handful of college students, a jogger, a Hispanic family, and an older African American man with a VFW hat. More importantly, there wasn’t a panicked parent within sight.
We’ve all been there, at a fair or a mall or a department store. One minute, the child is by your side. And the next, they’re not. After it happens a few times, the panic doesn’t come immediately. Rather, it builds, as you look behind racks and down aisles, and still can’t find them.
The World War II memorial—at least at the side entrances—seems almost designed to be a place where a child could slip out of a parent’s view, where walls and columns come together, obscuring the convergence of sidewalks just feet away. It looks open to adults, but if you’re less than four feet tall, it’s a maze.
We searched around the South entrance for a minute, looking along the sidewalks leading up to the outdoor memorial, behind the walls, down the ramps. Nothing.
“What’s your name?” my wife asked. The girl kept crying and pacing.
“Do you know your mommy’s name?”
“… or what color jacket she’s wearing?”
The girl didn’t respond.
I wanted her to talk, but totally understood why she couldn’t. That’s exactly how our second daughter would be. Our oldest daughter would hike to the closest store, convince them to lend her a megaphone, then climb the tallest column of the monument and call out to us, with an attitude. But our second would turn inward, paralyzed by fear, sadness and worry.
We decided to get away from that maze-like entrance and go to the center of the memorial, where it’s flat and open and we can see quite a distance in almost every direction. Without the girl engaging us, we herded her toward the open area, all the while enlisting our daughters to try talking to her.
“My name is Chloe. What’s yours?” said the one.
“We’re going to help find your mommy,” said another.
The girl didn’t speak, but seemed to understand.
There were ten of us in our group in total. Me, my wife, our four kids, my sister-in-law, who we were in town visiting, her two kids, and our adopted lost, little girl.
The rest of us had spent the first part of our day visiting the monuments, as she likely had. And the whole time I’d worried about losing one of mine in the crowd—mostly, I chased and corralled our 3-year-old boy.
Now we had a new purpose.
We all stood in the middle of the memorial looking as far as we could see for the one panicked parent that was most certainly out there. It felt like a few minutes. An eternity to a lost, little girl.
I started to wonder about “what ifs.” What if the parents didn’t know she was lost yet? Or, what if she’d already been here for hours, searching? Or, what if she’d wandered here, aimlessly, from one of the other nearby monuments or museums? I started looking around for someone in uniform instead: A cop or a park ranger.
And then, it happened. From the far entrance on the North side of the memorial, I saw that panicked look we all know: A mom, running as fast as she could muster, her jacket falling-off one shoulder, her purse dangling behind, her eyes scanning the crowd, her head on a swivel. Nothing else mattered.
The girl saw her before we did and set out as fast as she could. Across the open space, around the wall, up the ramp and into her mom’s open arms. The mom picked her up, and didn’t scold her, but just kissed her and hugged her. Behind the mom, two other daughters came running—one older, one maybe younger—with their looks of concern quickly turning to smiles. The older sister patted her on the head and rustled her hair.
I felt instant relief, even joy.
They turned and left together, without ever seeing us, or even knowing we were there. My wife stood waving. And she kept waving as they went out of sight. Nobody waved back, or even looked.
“Why are you still waving?” I asked.
“I wanted her mom to know she was okay,” my wife said. “That we were watching after her.”
They’ll certainly never know it, but we were.
We took a moment to remind our kids what do when lost. My sister-in-law doled out the age-old advice, “Look for a mom,” she said. Then she added, “…or a dad,” throwing a bone my way. I appreciated it, but I didn’t need it. Knowing that lost list girl was back with her family was enough for me.
♦◊♦
Original version of this article appeared on RuddyBits.com; Image courtesy of the author
My advice. FIND A KID. A kid will not hurt you (generally) and they will more likeley than not be with a guardian who CAN help.
Saying “find a parent” can be tricky as you don’t know what your child’s understanding of parent is. do they believe ALL moms carry big bags because THEIR mom carries a diaper bag around, and therefore would think this woman with a big bag is a mom? a kid’s idea of a parent may be wildly different from a child’s idea of one.
Great advice, Lynn. I think I’ll likely tell my kids that too. Finding another child close to there age would likely get them a parent who understands how these things happen and what best to do. Thanks.
Thanks for sharing this story Cort. And the interesting comments about how you approached the “go to a mom or policeman” comments. I liked how all you cared about was helping the little girl and your ego not getting in the way.
A nice story to which all us parents can relate. So glad that little girl found her family. That happened to me when I was 5 and we had just landed in Canada as immigrants off the boat. I was terrified.
Our kids are still young so we are vigilant. That said I always ensure that they are within my line of sight. If they get too far, I call out. I’ve had a few of those panic moments. The advice find a mom or dad (with kids) is very practical. Empathy counts for a lot.