I lost the Tyrant yesterday for three minutes, and it scared the bejeezus out of me. What is bejeezus, anyway?

We were in her room playing Baby. I was the baby. She told me to go sleep, which is like a dream come true. So I sprawled out on her bed and closed my eyes. She stroked my hair and gave me a kiss, and I zonked out like someone had given me a shot of Demerol, which is my all-time favorite prescription drug.

I woke up a short time later – 10 minutes maybe? – and the room was quiet. The door was closed. I called out for her – nothing.

I got up and looked around, listened. Nothing. I went to my bathroom, which is her go-to place for stealing things like make-up and dental floss. Nothing.

Then I panicked a little, and started shouting her name loudly and stomping through the house, terrified that in a minute I would have to call the police and they would think I had done something to my child, and how could I prove that I had been sleeping, and if they used that weird light that detects cleaned-up blood they’d see the Diva’s bloody nose mess and I’d be a suspect, and they’d waste so much time interrogating me that they’d lose the trail of the Tyrant and I’d never see her again. Plus I’d go to trial and be convicted of something and everybody would realize I was not at all as nice as I seemed, although lots of people don’t believe I’m nice anyway.

Really, that’s the way I think.

Finally I picked up the phone to call 9-1-1, and shouted out to her one last time before I dialed. “HONEY, MOMMY MISSES YOU! PLEASE COME SEE ME RIGHT NOW!” I was quiet for a couple of seconds, and then I saw her little face poking around the hall corner. I realized I had been holding my breath.

I put down the phone and picked her up for a hug.

“Sweetie, I couldn’t find you! That scared me! Where were you?”

“Oh!” she said. “I show you!” She led me back to her bedroom and pointed to the deepest recess of her closet.

“But why didn’t you come when I called you?”

“I dunno.”

There are only two reasons my 3-year-old hides quietly: if she accidentally poops somewhere that’s not a toilet, and if she has stolen something. I wasn’t smelling anything suspicious.

“What’s back there?” I asked. We had a little stand-off. I crouched down and looked at her. She stared back. I stood up and walked toward the closet. “NO! I SHOW YOU!” she shrieked. She reached into the closet and pulled out a purse. Inside the purse was her sister’s iPod. “Here. I just wanted to give it to you,” she said. Uh-huh.

A few minutes later we went outside to blow bubbles. As she blew little puffs of air into her bubble wand, I caught sight of her pudgy little half-painted toes, and thought about how much I love to kiss those stinky little feet. She chased the bubbles, giggling. Her funny laugh comes from deep in her chest, and everyone who hears it does ridiculously absurd things to make her do it again.

After she was done, she went inside to wash her hands, dumped the whole bottle of bubbles in the bathroom sink, ran the water till it overflowed and flooded the bathroom floor.

She was only missing for three minutes. Three minutes. Three long, quiet, shitty little minutes. Thank the bejeezus that’s over.