Chuckie Wabbie

I am definitely ready for ice cream tonight. The day started off questionable as to whether or not the ole tummy was going to be back on track. But after the wobbly start, get the kinks out run, I can officially say (now that I've downed an entire take-out order of Pad Kee Mao and Tom Yum soup), I am back. And hungry.

In light of a yuck, cooped-up week, we decided to lean in the direction of "get out of the house," and made an early morning of loading up the wagon with the jogging stroller and headed over to the Greenway by the Trader Joe's (Rea Rd.) section. I was also feeling a little guilty that we had not done very well with showing our newest family member, Chuckie Wabbie, a very good time. Yes, she's been fed, kissed, and sponged bathed (in milk, soup, and juice). And yes, she's made an excellent bunkmate for Stella. But we've really not shown her all the sights of the Queen City. Granted, she arrived in the midst of what we will call "the low times of parenthood," but I still had this pang of motherly guilt that we needed to make up for lost time. So, Chuckie Wabbie came along for the run.

Our course was going to be an easy-does-it-don't-overdo-tempo of a run. (Yes. Even easier does than I usually dooz it.) Two miles in, two miles back, and end at the Starbucks for some smoothies and coffee and water. Two miles in, I started to feel very happy that we'd made the outing. The kids were happy to be out and about, not minding the stroll. And really not minding the treats waiting for them at the end of the run. The temperature felt as low as it's been in a long, long time. The overcast sky made it even better to be out amongst other runners and bikers and walkers and dogs and other stroller buddies for the kids to wave and say hi to. If a breeze had blown, I would dare to say that conditions were perfect. Not missing a thing.

Shortly after we turned around to head back 2 miles to the coffee shop, I had a sudden, truly out of nowhere, fear-striking thought. Where's Chuckie Wabbie? I blurted the thought out loud, Mark bringing the stroller to a near-screeching halt. I'd purposefully stuffed her in the side pocket of Stella's seat. To my horror, she was not there. I checked under Stella's bottom. Nope. She wasn't sitting on her. I fluffed her blanket to see if she was hiding in the green fleece. No. Heath rummaged around his seat, under Puppy. Chuckie Wabbie was gone.

Mark suggested we turn back around, but I had a sense that would be a waste of time. I had a gut-feeling she was along the original trail and we needed to keep moving. We picked up the pace and began our frantic search for our dear rabbit. Our dear new family member. Our dear new family member made by my dear old friend. Sure, she could make us another one. But it wouldn't be Chuckie Wabbie. And the guilt. Oh, the guilt. She's barely been with us a week, the week has been dreadful, and now, NOW, she is LOST.

Keep your eyes peeled, Heath kept saying. Find it, Stella peeped.

I spotted a couple of baby jogging women. I'd seen them earlier on the run. They seemed leisurely and chatty, like they might be the type to notice a sweet rabbit lying helpless on the greenway. Maybe not the type to pick it up, but certainly the kind who would see it and be able to point us in the right direction.

No such luck, though. They had not seen Chuckie Wabbie, but they briefly shared our pain for having lost a beloved lovey over the side of the stroller.

Just as I was getting ready to give up hope, I spotted a silver package. An open silver package, also known as trash. Stella's trash. Her open (and empty) pouch of consumed Trader Joe's Apple Strawberry Fruity Flakes lay irresponsibly on the trail. Rather than focus on the shame of letting my toddler litter without even realizing it, I grabbed the garbage off the pavement, threw it in the first bin that became available, and found a renewed sense of hope. Chuckie Wabbie was close. I could feel it.

We closed in on the end of our 4 miles, yards away from the stop light at the corners of Rea and Bevington. Simultaneously, Mark and I spotted a lump at the edge of the crosswalk. We couldn't see her face, but something about the pale blob was gentle, cozy. Our pace quickened, squeals (all four of us) grew louder. People stared in alarm. But we didn't care. It was Chuckie Wabbie. Face down on the pavement.

Stella was thrilled to be reunited with her bunny pal. And I tried to not worry that Chuckie Wabbie had been so disappointed with her home life that she wasn't accidentally dropped, but had actually thrown herself from the moving stroller. She enjoyed a refreshing box of organic apple juice at Starbucks, and didn't leave Stella's side for the rest of the day. Hopefully Wabbie understands that falling from the baby jogger is simply a rite of passage in the Ropko house. It means, we love you enough to let you do your thing, and we'll be back to pick you up later. Unless a dog takes off with you. In that case, Wendy will have to make us a new one.