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It began innocently enough on a Saturday night. My husband, Fred, promised to take me out to a much-awaited dinner alone. Our boys,
Erik and Ryan, (13 and 14 ½ respectively) were old enough to stay by themselves—or so we had always thought.
Erik and Ryan wanted to go by themselves to their favorite Chinese restaurant. It was a local take-out joint on the other side of a
busy road. A road I had always dreaded their crossing, especially on bicycles. But I reluctantly gave them money and begged them to
be careful.
After they left, I wondered if I should've driven them but I reminded myself they were old enough to go alone and I had to give
them their freedom. They’d crossed that busy road many times before.
I don’t recall just what it was that made me want to see them before we went to dinner, but Fred said it was on the way so we might as
well stop. Perhaps I wanted to give them something like a house key or an order to feed the dog when they got home. Whatever it was,
I’ve since forgotten, but what followed, I shall never forget.
When we came upon the nearby road where the restaurant was we immediately saw it blocked off by a police car and tiny red neon
markers dotted the pavement.
“There was an accident,” my husband said, sounding casual and unassuming.
A bit further down we saw several ambulances with red flashing lights and a crowd standing on the sidewalk.
“Oh, my God! That’s where the restaurant is! Do you think they’re all right?” The words flew out of my mouth and I could feel
the wave of fear build to a crescendo inside me, surpassing anything I’ve known before. I couldn’t tell if I was frightened for
their well being—or my own. For a few horrible seconds, the lines blurred. I couldn’t tell who was who because at the moment,
my life was ending and I sure wished I had driven them to the restaurant.
“Do you think they’re all right?” I trembled as I said my prayers in silence. I felt like I was going to throw my insides
completely up and fly into an abyss of insanity.
All Fred could say was, “We’ll check it out.” His voice was deliberately controlled. Somehow I sensed his fear but I was too
busy dealing with my own.
Then we saw what caused all the commotion.
“It’s a parade!” we exclaimed together as we couldn’t believe our eyes. What the he** was a parade doing there—marching on a
Saturday night—and tying up the roads? I thanked God for that parade. Then I remembered reading in the local paper, earlier that
day, that a Fire Marshall’s parade was due in town. I had forgotten. A hundred or so gentlemen in Navy blue trumped passed me, followed
by a band and costumed Indians sporting multi-colored headdresses. Those Fire Marshalls almost killed me. The surreal sight continued in
droves as I tried to settle my jellied legs, swallow my heart back down into my chest, and still my trembling lips.
I worked my way through the crowd and to the restaurant. There they were, the prettiest picture of all, Ryan and Erik quietly
enjoying their meal of beef and broccoli.
I ran to hug them. Ryan, who was gazing down at his meal, made his usual quick upper body swerve to avoid me—lest he be
embarrassed. Erik looked at me half smiling in disbelief, like I had five heads—the usual look a teenager has for his Mother.
“Ma, what’s a matter? What are you doing here?” Ryan asked.
"I thought you were hurt—we saw the ambulances..."
“O, ma, it’s a parade! I pet two horses that went by,” Erik gleefully reported.
I left still shaking.
Fred and I proceeded with our plans, much relieved. We ate, but somehow the ambiance of the evening, a Saturday night out alone with
my husband, was lost.
Later when we came home, my husband noticed a sticky kitchen floor under foot. The boys obviously spilled something. But all I could
think was, "Who cared? They could have burned the house down (as long as they weren’t in it) and I wouldn't have cared. They were
unharmed and alive."
I spent the rest of the night at home enjoying the company of my boys. Sure, we can get a pet chameleon, I told
them. Whatever they wanted. It was a good time for them to cash in on mom’s vulnerability.
“You were that scared?” asked Ryan in disbelief.
We sat together in the den as I watched them play the latest rage video game. I sat there thinking, boy, those video games can
sure kill you—if parenting doesn’t get you first.
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About The Author:
Gloria Schramm has been married to her wonderful husband, Fred, for 32 years. They are the proud parents of Ryan and Erik.
Gloria's a freelance writer and author of Soul On Fire: Encounter With Mother Teresa:
A spiritual voyage and love story of how one woman found God and the keys to life's mysteries through Mother Teresa. She
may be reached at: gjs1950@yahoo.com
* This article is available for your publication, for a F-E-E.
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