A few weeks ago, I was introduced to the works of Gene Weingarten, and later to his article Fatal Distraction upon recommendation by Mrs. Smith. I am not a parent, nor plan on being one any time soon, but I understood. After reading, I asked my mother if she had ever forgotten me in the car, and she quickly responded no, almost insulted. My mother is an organized, head-strong woman. My aunt-not so much. While by no means is she an unfit mother, she has managed to raise four girls ranging from age nineteen to age four, but with four excitable girls, she is bound to forget something someday. A one day it was her youngest, Aliyah. Don’t worry Aliyah is still alive, a bubbly and joyous four year old. but around three years ago my aunt almost suffered from a fatal mistake any parent could make. This story is passed around every year when they come to visit, laughed off as an Oh-My-What-A-Day! type of story, but upon thought, the scope of this problem affects parents everywhere.
Three years ago my aunt was driving home from the grocery store with three of my cousins. The windows of her mini-van were open, brining a much needed ocean breeze. My cousins live in St. Croix, a tiny Caribbean island owned by the United States where it is always a warm 80 degrees year-round. My second oldest cousin was twelve at the time. In the car seat was the youngest, Aliyah. She was maybe a year old. Next to her was her caring older sister and closest friend, my second youngest cousin around age four. They arrived home and began the dreaded chore of taking the groceries up the stairs and into their second story apartment. Aliyah, a quiet baby, waited patiently in her car seat. One-by-one they huffed and puffed as they brought the groceries up their stairs and into their home. Once they finished, they began to put their groceries in their respective places.
The whole task took around 10 minutes from start to end, and once finished they plopped down on their couches with a sigh. Five minutes passed and my aunt asked my twelve-year old cousin where was Aliyah, thinking she had taken her out of the car seat and into the house. My cousin responds with a shrug, yet at the same moment understood the look of terror on her mother’s face. Both she and my aunt rushed downstairs and threw open the door to the mini-van. There Aliyah lay, pink-faced and screaming. Fifteen minutes later she was playing, laughing as if it never happened. My aunt was mortified and crying. My twelve year old cousin parented Aliyah for the next couple of hours, and assured her mother they all forgot about the baby and she thought no less of her. In mere seconds, my aunt’s world turned upside down. While this story is passed around at the dinner table, never will my aunt forget the possible outcome of her almost fatal distraction.
Three years ago my aunt was driving home from the grocery store with three of my cousins. The windows of her mini-van were open, brining a much needed ocean breeze. My cousins live in St. Croix, a tiny Caribbean island owned by the United States where it is always a warm 80 degrees year-round. My second oldest cousin was twelve at the time. In the car seat was the youngest, Aliyah. She was maybe a year old. Next to her was her caring older sister and closest friend, my second youngest cousin around age four. They arrived home and began the dreaded chore of taking the groceries up the stairs and into their second story apartment. Aliyah, a quiet baby, waited patiently in her car seat. One-by-one they huffed and puffed as they brought the groceries up their stairs and into their home. Once they finished, they began to put their groceries in their respective places.
The whole task took around 10 minutes from start to end, and once finished they plopped down on their couches with a sigh. Five minutes passed and my aunt asked my twelve-year old cousin where was Aliyah, thinking she had taken her out of the car seat and into the house. My cousin responds with a shrug, yet at the same moment understood the look of terror on her mother’s face. Both she and my aunt rushed downstairs and threw open the door to the mini-van. There Aliyah lay, pink-faced and screaming. Fifteen minutes later she was playing, laughing as if it never happened. My aunt was mortified and crying. My twelve year old cousin parented Aliyah for the next couple of hours, and assured her mother they all forgot about the baby and she thought no less of her. In mere seconds, my aunt’s world turned upside down. While this story is passed around at the dinner table, never will my aunt forget the possible outcome of her almost fatal distraction.
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