Dad on Duty #99

A few days ago, I had to most frightening experience I’ve ever had at my Dad on Duty job.

I’m pretty sure it shortened my life by 2 – 5 years.  In six….SIX….years, I don’t believe I’ve ever freaked out at this level.

We’ve had non-custodial parent confrontations; we’ve had unknown adults just appear on the playground; we’ve had weirdo stalkers show up to see a guest speaker.

But nothing, not one other thing, scared me like this one.

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It’s raining, pretty hard, today.  Spring storms.  The kids are all trapped inside, so all day, the building is full.  And the kids are kinda high maintenance in that setting.

Both first and second grade are about to head out for different stuff.  So there’s about 250 kids at that end of the school starting to gather.  I am in my usual spot, basically in the middle of the main hallway, when I see them start to flock together.  It looks substantial, so I figure I better head down there and help.

I’m about halfway to that end (if you’re not familiar, our main hallway is a straight, north-south line from the front door to the backdoor.  You can see all the way through the school from any point in that main hall).  It’s another 250 feet, or more, to the back door, where the 1st and 2nd graders are gathering.

At that end of the hallway, is a door that leads outside, to the teacher’s parking lot.  And on the other side of the teacher’s lot, is just a huge field that leads….well, wherever you want to go.

Remember, it’s raining.  *Hard*.

I see a big kid, who clearly doesn’t belong with 1st or 2nd grade, suddenly appear in the crowd.  I don’t really know him; at this point, 3rd and 4th grade kids are largely in the “herd” for me……I recognize them, but can’t name more than maybe 10 of them.

The big kid walks up to the back door, that (as I said) leads to the parking lot and then to the real world.

He’s leaning on the push bar to open the door.  He’s looking around, to his left, and to his right.  He seems to be scoping the situation out.

I think “huh.  That’s odd.”   And pick up my pace just a bit.  I’m still about 225 feet away.  But I also think “there’s a reasonable explanation for this.  When I get there, I’ll just ask him ‘whassup?’”.

Suddenly, he hits the door and runs outside.

As fast as he possibly can.  He’s not jogging.  He’s *sprinting*.

And the weirdest thing happened in my head.  One part of my brain starting screaming “a kid just ran out the back door!”.  And then another part of my brain said “there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for that.  Think for a moment.  No big deal.”   Then that other part….the part that’s been trained for 35 years to think of the worst thing first, then work my way down to the least dangerous thing, said: “HEY!  DIP*&^%.  A KID JUST *RAN*, AS HARD AS HE COULD, OUT THE BACK DOOR OF THE SCHOOL!  RIGHT IN FRONT OF *YOU*. THAT’S A BIG &*^$%*& DEAL.  THIS IS YOUR ACTUAL JOB HERE, IDIOT”

I’m 200 feet away.

Now, I’m sprinting.  As fast as I can.  I plow through 2nd graders, probably sent a couple flying.  Hit the door and go as fast as I can into the center of the parking lot.

“Think…think” I tell myself.  Where would he go?

I can’t see him.  He’s gone.

I do about four 360’s, looking.

Nothing.  No sign of brush moving, no sound.  Is he in a car?  Was there a bad guy, or a non-custodial parent, waiting out here for him and that’s where he is now?  Did he make it into the field behind me, and he’s headed…..I don’t know where?

I take about a minute, maybe two, to consider all that and keep looking.

And then I realize:  I.  Need.  Help.  I am now in deep S^$%.

Literally, the next thought I had was this:  I’ve been here SIX YEARS.  Never lost a kid.  And now, seriously, with like 3 weeks left…… I LOST A KID!?!?

I key up my radio:  “Ms Marbibi”.  No answer.  Somebody says “who do you need?”  I repeat, more frantic: “Ms Marbibi, back parking lot, now!”.  I hear, I think her, say “repeat?”.

Now, I’m officially freaking out.  I’m still spinning around and around in the back parking lot, looking for any sign of the kid.  It is pelting rain; big rain coming down really hard.  I’m drenched.

Many of my work colleagues from my old life can probably share a few cases, in 35 years, where I freaked out on the radio.  I’ve been stuck in a house fire, and pretty sure I was going to die.  I’ve been under gun fire, huddled behind my supervisor truck, pinned down and unable to get back out.  I’ve had literally hundreds of situations like that in my prior career where I needed to call for help on the radio.  Most of those times, I think, I was reasonably calm.

Not today.  This was WAY worse than getting shot at.

Now I key up my radio again:  “MS MARBIBI BACK PARKING LOT **NOW**!!”

Here comes the cavalry.  About 15 people, including Ms. Marbibi, burst out the back door.  I just say, “I lost a kid.  I think he might be in a car here, our he made it out there” pointing to the field behind us.  “I lost him” I say again, part admission, part emotional release and part operational update.

The team starts to move into the parking lot, fanning out.

And suddenly…….the kid pops out of a car.  He runs, again, as fast as he can though all the staff, into the back door.

I stand, completely speechless.

As he runs by her, Ms. Marbibi asks “is that him?”.  I can’t speak, only nod.

Turns out, his teacher had sent him out to her car to get something they needed.  It’s raining hard, so *she* didn’t want to go.  And that’s why he kinda prepared himself for the exit, ran so fast, and immediately dived into her car…..because it’s raining hard.

All perfectly innocent, and makes sense.

But from the view of Dad on Duty; a kid just ran as fast as he could out the back door, and now I can’t find him.

I took a moment, in the parking lot, seriously considering throwing up.  Tamara pats my back a bit.  “You ok?”.  “No” I answer, honestly.  I ask her: “please tell that teacher; never, ever do that again.  I won’t survive that twice”.  She smiles.

It’s about two hours before my pulse returns to normal.

At the end of the day, we had all the kids.  And everybody was just fine.

This is just one of *many* reasons there should be a margarita machine in the teacher’s lounge.