From time to time, our town forgets that we’re a mere two miles from the city limits of Washington DC and instead masquerades as Mayberry-meets-Pleasantville.  During the summer, such episodes of municipal amnesia take place the first Friday night of every month.  We bust out a bandstand, a local resto sets up a grill and they even pitch a Bouncy House in the middle of 40th Street.

As our 3 y.o. obediently queued for his chance to bounce like mad, another small child rushed the gate and bodily propelled himself halfway through the opening before the attendant hauled him out by his feet.

We all looked about, expected a parent to come flying forward to claim the wayward child.  But no.  Apparently, Solo had toddled - he couldn’t have been much more than two - to the community festival on his own.  In fact, after grinning at the BH attendant, Solo cheerfully danced off onto 40th Street - conveniently blocked for the event.

If we accept that it takes a village to raise a child, how do you react when one of your fellow villagers is clearly falling down on the job?

My husband and I shifted nervously as Kyd waited.  ”Maybe his Mom thinks his Dad is watching him and vice versa,” I whispered.  My husband’s reply was something along the lines of “Uh-huh.”

“I want to bounce!” Kyd whinged, hinting that his five minutes’ worth of Good Toddler behavior was drawing to a close.  Fortunately, the line shuffled forward just then.  Kyd would have to wait for the following bounce session, but at least we all felt progress had been made.

And then Solo returned, launching a second assault at the Bouncy House.  The attendant was a little less amused this time, and all the assembled parents looked around.  Surely, by now, Solo’s parent would’ve figured out that he was MIA.  He was well-dressed and neatly turned out.  Kyd, by comparison, was wearing bits of his dinner on his tee.

But no.  Solo ran free, frolicking about for the next fifteen minutes or so.  

Just as Kyd had finished his Bounce House session - shortly before he’d started asking to go again, wanna go again! - a woman emerged to claim Solo.  Scrawny, mean-faced, her hair pulled back far too tight and her green top hanging on her frame, Solo’s mama hollered “Git over here, boy!”

On the one hand, Solo was never in any danger of immediate physical harm.  And there wasn’t anyone in charge, per se - no Master of Ceremonies to announce a small child attacking the Bouncy House.  What we could have done, I suppose, was lift Solo into the air - my husband is 6′2 - and shout, “HEY!  ANYONE MISPLACE A TODDLER?”

That felt extreme.

There’s always a moment of negotiating - on the playground, at church - how much you’ll intervene with other children.  With friends’ kids, it’s natural.  But when the child is completely unknown, and the parents aren’t in evidence, it’s quite challenging.  Factor in that the child’s behavior is problematic, and that he doesn’t seem troubled by the lack of an adult presence?  It’s a mess.

Because while our community pretends to be a village, the truth is that we’re not a close-knit community linked and tied together.  Most of us are casual and uneasy acquaintances, and it is difficult to say when a parent has overstepped, or failed to step up.

The Bouncy House will be back in four weeks, and we’ve promised Kyd that we can make a return trip.  Maybe Solo will be there, too.  And maybe I’ll have a better way to deal with that rogue, free-rangin’ toddler.

But probably not.