It's not cool to admit that a three-year-old runs things, that sheer exhaustion has disabled my parental gear shift, stuck in idle, hoping to stay sane for one more day. What's worse is that all my friends are perfect mothers. How they find time to cook a full-course meal, keep an organized house and raise multiple children is beyond my comprehension.

What's really exasperating is that when people meet Johnny, they are bewitched by my precocious son, who appears well-mannered, social and highly articulate for a toddler. What charm school did he attend while I was looking the other way? It's like he has this light switch that dazzles people in public then gets shut off when he's alone with me.

From the time he became mobile, he's been playing hide-and-seek with me, a game I swear I never taught him. I spend at least two hours a day trying to find what nook or cranny he's crawled into, alerted by the sudden silence. You'd think after two years of this torture he'd have tired of his disappearing act or at the very least, I'd have found every hiding spot in the house, but he continues to out-smart me.

Not content to hide in a closet, one day he wiggled inside a dress on a hanger and proved that he was capable of standing rock-still for almost a half hour as I went into panic mode trying to find him. Another time, he fell asleep in the dryer, covering himself up with towels. The worst happened at Christmas when he disappeared outside our church as I spoke to the pastor. We found him impersonating baby Jesus, curled up in the crib of the nativity scene.

Usually Johnny is distracted by the wonders of the world and people's attention when we go out in public. It's probably the most peaceful part of my day when I run my chores. In the supermarket, he's content to sit in the shopping cart chatting up passing customers, and I've learned to park my cart in the middle of the aisle. An inconvenience for others, but it's the only way I can keep those busy hands from loading the cart with his personal selections.

He gets a free cookie at the bakery counter, a lollipop at the dry cleaners and lots of smiles from the people he greets wherever we go.

Yesterday I stopped at Home Depot, his first visit to a hardware store. Thrilled by the cart with a built-in race car, I was free to motor down the aisles with Johnny's 'vroom, vroom' background noise. He was caught up with his imaginary NASCAR race, and I had time to pick up the washers for my dripping faucet, light bulbs and cleaning supplies in relative peace. It was almost a perfect afternoon.

Johnny was behaving so well, I even gave myself time to wander through the kitchen renovation department and spend a few minutes day-dreaming about granite counters and stainless steel appliances. A friendly salesman gave Johnny a pat on the head and turned his attention to me, launching into a spiel about Home Depot's extended payment plan that would enable me to have the kitchen of my dreams with affordable terms. I was so caught up in my fantasy that I was already picking countertop samples and paint chips before I noticed there were no engine sounds emanating from my cart. Johnny was missing.

My heart sank. Not for a minute did I think he was abducted, but as I gazed around, realizing I was surrounded by fifty-thousand-square-feet of adventure with thousands of hiding spots, I broke into tears.

"Johnny," I screamed at the top of my lungs. "Johnny, come back here this minute. This is not funny, Johnny. This is not a game."

The salesman reached for the phone while at the same time trying to comfort me. I heard the announcement as I raced down the aisles. "Code Orange." The voice over the loudspeaker continued the announcement three times, but I paid little attention, trying to limit how far Johnny could travel, running up and down the aisles screaming his name.

"Don't worry, Miss. We'll find him. No one's getting out. We're in shutdown. If someone has tried to take your child he's still in the store."

I had little time to listen to the manager who had caught up with me and was trying to calm me down. I was panting, the panic and the running was wearing me down. At the end of the electrical aisle I fell apart, just stopped in my tracks and let the tears roll down my face.

I looked up at the manager. Compassion was written all over his face. He was talking to me, but I barely heard him. "We'll find him..."

Customers were staring at me, looks of disgust mirrored my own thoughts; I'm such a lousy mother.

I had other thoughts; I'm going to kill you when I find you, filtered through my head as I watched staff, a sea of blue vests fan out. All around me I could hear a choir of voices shouting Johnny's name.

"Come with me," the manager said, leading me to the customer service desk where an employee was also calling for Johnny, her voice bouncing off metal beams.

A clerk handed me a glass of water and I sipped it as I listened to the commotion at the exit door.

"God damn parents can't control their own kids. I need to leave. Let me out."

"That's her, over there. Look at her! She doesn't seem the least bit perturbed, letting everybody else look for her kid while she leans on the counter."

"Don't listen to them," the manager said, still at my side. "It is company policy to detain all shoppers and staff until a missing child is found."

"I'm sorry," I said to the crowd, my eyes imploring the customers for understanding. "He's just a little boy--he's only three." It seemed as if no one, not a single person was impressed with my parenting skills.

The phone on the counter rang and he answered. "We've found him. He's in aisle twelve."

Together, the manager and I trotted across the front of the store, all eyes were on me as shoppers stood at exits, waiting for the doors to be unlocked. I was mortified, but flooded with relief for the policy that ensured a child's safety.

A group of employees was gathered half-way up the aisle. I was relieved that some were laughing and seemed not to harbor ill will towards me or Johnny. As I neared, and the crowd parted, another wave of embarrassment washed over me as I saw my son, jeans around his ankles perched on one of the toilets on display.

"Mommy, I made poopie. There's no toilet paper, Mommy."