Don't talk to strangers

When AJ was about five or six, there was a rash of child abductions and milk carton "have you seen this child" ads and in general, a lot of coverage about bad guys around playgrounds. These reports frightened me - and I was ever more vigilant about protecting my son. How do this is without being paranoid was the maternal challenge.

My cousin Lisa, and her then husband Mike, were active in Tae Kwon Do and suggested I enroll AJ in a program called "Kid Safe." The program was for children 6 to 10 or so and was held at a local community center. It was a mix of parental coaching and hands-on work with the kids to teach them some important safety tips. I loved it. AJ learned how to jab a bad guy in the eyes; stomp his feet against the bad guy's shins; shout "NO! if approached by someone trying to grab him from the sandbox or on his 1/2 block walk home from second grade. He learned that policeman don't ask little boys to come into their cars - no matter how impressive the "uniform" or kindly the voice - without mom or dad. And that if he were ever scared, it was ok to leave both his brand new bike and his backpack on the ground and run like crazy for home, his allowance safe and his parents relieved.

I learned that it was NOT a good idea for AJ to talk to strangers. Of course I knew this already. But strangers did not include the nice ladies in the Jewel or in line at the movie theatre or at Golf Mill shopping center who were forever commenting on AJ's big blue eyes; adorable dimples; and absolutely delicious precociousness. No, those ladies were just making toddler talk and oogling over my perfect child.Not so fast Mrs. Bayard [I was still Mrs. Bayard back then]. It is NOT appropriate for your child to talk to anyone that is not on a first name basis [except for his teachers of course]. This will confuse him. After all, a stranger is a stranger whether wrapped in a nasty sex-offender raincoat or a Talbot's blazer. Wow. I'd been unknowingly encouraging my son to play with fire. To cross the street without looking both ways. To go into the pool without a full hour of bologna sandwich digestion.

After the Kid Safe program, things changed. We practiced eye jabbing - just a bit. After all, it is a rather gruesome escape hatch. We had a special code - Jordan [his middle name] to indicate that the ONLY person who could pick him up after school if it wasn't me or his dad had to use that code. And, I no longer encouraged AJ to smile back and chat up the nice ladies in Talbot blazers in line at the Pickwick Theatre.

Fast forward 15 years. I am at the light at Gladstone and Bright Street. It is a stunningly perfect day. Baby-blue sky. Goldilocks-just-right temperature [tank top without being chilly or sunburned]. Just about noon so a few folks already at outside cafe tables with panini and cokes. A beautiful little girl sort of skips up to the light. She is standing right next to me. Freckled. Pink sun dress. Wheat colored bangs. Maybe 7 or 8 years old.

Hallo she ventures [That's sort of how they pronounce hello. With a slightly British Cowboy accent.] I look around. Is she talking to me? Is the cop around? The one who busted me for flirting on day two? Nope. Just she and I at the cross walk. Hello I say, trying to be as warm and close as possible. It is a beautiful day, isn't it? That's her voice. Not mine. I only have about 10 seconds for the following programmed tape to play:

What's going on?
Where is her mother?
Is she a gypsy?
Where is her mother?
Oh my g-d, she's not wearing any shoes and it is so hot out.
Where IS HER MOTHER?
Is there a pick pocket behind me?

The light changes. We cross the street, she slightly ahead of me.

There are no gypsies. No pick pockets. No mother in sight. Just a little girl, wandering through her town - likely on the way to the library or park - saying hello to a lady with a bad haircut, cool sun glasses, and a very warm smile.

Since that time, I've been accosted by two even more gorgeous Maori sisters who unabashedly pulled open the changing room current at Posties in the midst of my swimsuit trauma - and yes, they saw me UNDRESSED. The older one simply asked: Where's my mum? I think she's in the room next door, I murmured, thinking briefly about the viability of kidnapping them both and raise them on my own [they were THAT CUTE] and being satisfied with the pleasure of being exposed to such innocence and trust. [One of them was eventually scolded and maybe even quasi-spanked by mum for her naughtiness. The poor girl wreaked havoc in the accessories department. Lots of bows on the floor].

Someone told me before we left that New Zealand was kind of like America in the 1950s. In this respect, it is true. Kids can ride their bikes here. They don't seem to have cell phones. They run freely in the town - not in an unkempt way - in a school's-out-for-summer way. They look you in the eye at stop lights, grocery check out counters, waiting in line for the movie. They even talk to strangers.