Losing The Toy (But Not My Mind)

Is motherhood just crisis management?

So it finally happened.

The day every parent dreads. The day we lost Florence the Flamingo. Now, Florence is not just a toy. She is The Toy.

Florence is Frankie’s soul mate. The toy he can’t be parted from. She is the only reason we managed to wean him off the ratty hospital blanket some kind soul knitted for him when he was in NICU, which was dragged through London parks and pavements until it quite literally unravelled.

I try to keep Florence at home, but somehow Frankie still sneaks her out. Stuffed into pockets. Hidden under coats. Smuggled past me like contraband.

I only realised she’d made it out when Frankie proudly introduced her to the entire café. Alongside his matching Florence jumper, obviously (the £3 Vinted buy that won Christmas!)

And then…

Somewhere between the church toy and clothes sale, the greengrocer and the library… Florence flew away.

Had she migrated?

Had someone else picked her up, paid for her and taken her home from the church sale?

If motherhood had a job description

I’d definitely include: crisis management, problem solving, decision-making (or more specifically, extremely unpopular decision-making), nervous system regulation (your own and others) and of course leadership.

Thank God I had some foundations to fall back on. Because when Frankie realised Florence wasn’t there, when his bottom lip started to tremble, and he just wanted to be held, it would have been easy to slip down the slalom slope of panic.

I could feel it rising in the back of my throat and gulped it down. Not today.

I knew if I let that guy steer this ship, I’d be dealing with the Boomerang Effect. Three overtired three-year-olds absorbing my anxious energy and firing it straight back at me threefold. I couldn’t afford to make this situation harder than it already was.*

So I took it minute by minute.

Back when my teeny premature babies were in NICU, my husband was still playing tennis. At night, he’d read books by elite coaches about match-day psychology, completely oblivious to the triplet-shaped tornado about to shred his hobby.

One thing stuck.

Top players don’t obsess over the scoreboard or the magnitude of the match when they are on the court. They lose themselves in the point they’re playing.

“Play the point you’re in, Leila.”

So I did. I didn’t allow myself to mentally fast-forward to how apocalyptic bedtime would be. I took a breath, made a plan. Slow calm words, slow calm movements to signal to the kids that I’d got this. I tried to affect a nonchalant tone, explaining Florence was probably just waiting for us.

It worked. Frankie didn’t cry, but held my hand, his eyes downcast and spirit broken as we retraced our steps over town. I have to admit, when we went back to the church sale, and no one had seen Florence, I caught myself spiralling: posters, Facebook groups, small-scale search operations.

Thank God for the miracle that then befell - Florence was hanging up on a hook at the greengrocer’s. Hallelujah.

Frankie and Jerry had fought so passionately over who would carry the bag of strawberries and melon that he must have dropped her. Finally, I could breathe out. Phew! I live to parent, I mean, crisis manage, another day.

Let’s be honest, this won’t be the last time a beloved toy goes walkies.

So let me know

• Has your child ever lost The Toy? What happened?

• How do you stay calm when a small crisis threatens to become a big one?

• And most importantly… do I need to buy a backup Florence? (I didn’t even realise this was a thing until other parents were shocked I didn’t have a collection of replica Florences and started sending me eBay and Vinted links!)

I write about mum guilt, what I do to keep calm and sane with 3-year-old triplets and of course, how to break up with that bitch, Mum Guilt. If you’d like a weekly dose, hit subscribe below:

*I wrote this at 6am. Yes, I felt smug about that too. By mid-afternoon, I had triggered a full-blown case of the Boomerang Effect.

The accountants rang in a flap, saying I had to sign something before lunch or they would redo it and charge me again. Stress. A day with no childcare is not the day to get me to read, question and sign financial documents.

Then I pranged the car on the way to get Frankie’s diarrhoea sample tested.

My stress levels went through the roof. And of course, my children bounced that energy straight back at me. Screaming. Fighting. Crying uncontrollably on the floor (which is what I wanted to do). The whole lot.