The Sun
Sunnyvale's Newspaper

Mixed messages confuse our kids

By Ingrid McCleary

"The white zone is for loading and unloading only." Whenever you watch a movie that includes an airport terminal scene, you'll invariably hear this in the background. I know this rule. I also know the white curb markings along Cumberland Drive mean the same thing.

But it flew out of my head the day my youngest son, Travis, climbed into the car and burst into tears. "I can't find my backpack!"

Last summer, we'd planned a family vacation to Tuolumne Meadows in Yosemite National Park. I felt our children were now old enough to handle the rugged alpine terrain. Before the trip, we presented Travis with his special backpack, one that would hold his personal survival equipment. He'd beamed with pride, knowing it meant we had faith in his abilities.

"Where did you see it last?" I asked.

"I put it by my classroom door after lunch. When the bell rang, I went back to class, but my backpack wasn't there."

"Did you ask for the teacher's help?" He nodded. "What did she tell you to do?"

"To look in the lost and found, but I don't know where that is!"

He looked at me then. His tears had created clean streaks down his dusty cheeks. "Mom, I think someone stole it!"

"Well, let's look for it right now," I said.

"NO!"

"Why not?"

"Because I'm crying! I don't want people to see me crying!"

"But you're crying because your backpack is missing. You're crying because you think someone stole it. Stealing is wrong. It hurts, doesn't it? I'd cry about that, too." I gave him a few moments to gather his composure, and together we went searching for the lost backpack.

In the back of my mind, I recalled the other things that had "disappeared" when my daughter and older son had attended this school.

It was always the cool things that disappeared--the Jansport backpacks, the 49er jackets.

We rummaged through the lost and found and checked the playground, the office, around his classroom. "Maybe somebody picked it up by mistake," his teacher offered when we searched his classroom one more time. Travis and I nodded in agreement, but inside I thought, "That's just the kind way of saying it's stolen."

As we headed back to our car, Travis said, "Mom, we won't get it back."

"If you believe we won't, then we won't," I answered. "But if you believe you will, and pray you will, then you might get it back. Think only good thoughts."

I thought about how to help him best deal with this disappointment during the drive home. I didn't even see the yellow slip tucked under my windshield. My husband, Bill, brought it in saying, "Did you know you got a parking ticket?"

When I'd first arrived at the school to pick Travis up, I'd noticed the motorcycle cop on the premises. I remember thinking, "Good, maybe he'll cite the cars that block traffic by double parking, maybe he'll catch those who enter the 'Buses Only' zone." Well, he cited me because I'd left my car in the white zone for seven minutes.

I was wrong. It didn't matter that I'd never left the car there before, that I'd always parked across the street whenever I had to speak to someone in the office or meet with the teacher. It didn't matter that concern for my son completely blocked the zone rule from my memory. I hadn't remembered, and I'll pay the consequences.

But I find it extremely ironic that I got ticketed while searching for a stolen object. I should have waved the police officer down and had him help in the search. And though my son doesn't understand what the word "irony" means, he said, "Mom, that's not right. You were helping me, and now you're in trouble, too."

And that matters.

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This article appeared in the Sunnyvale Sun, December 10, 1997.
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