The longest five minutes of my life.

Five minutes sounds like nothing. But five minutes is a yawning eternity when you don’t know where your child is.

I lost my daughter the other day.

One minute I was watching my two little kids playing together, my son trying to scramble up a shallow wall behind his long-legged sister. The next, my boy had bolted, and I was running after him.

Seconds passed while I chased down my little runner, and then I turned back to my daughter. And she had gone.

It was a busy morning at the edge of the beach where we live. A weak Wintry sun was out and there were people everywhere, getting coffees, power-walking, throwing balls for dogs, chasing kids on scooters. As I stood a moment, trying to contain a wriggling two-year-old, I refocused my eyes through the constantly moving scene to spot a little red-headed girl in a pink tutu. She wasn't there. To me, it seemed like there was a little Matilda-shaped gap where she'd been standing seconds earlier.

Anyone who has ever been in the same situation will know the feeling of rising panic that begins to bubble up when you realise your child is not where you thought she was.

And as I began to look for her, with a silent chant of 'stay calm, stay calm, stay calm' pounding my ears, I start to move.

My daughter knew that we were heading to a cafe to pick up drinks, so that is the first place I look. No sign of her. There's a park opposite. No sign of her.

I'm shouting her name now, and I can feel myself getting hot. I strap my son into his stroller and begin to push him down the street, away from the cafe, shouting for her the whole time. My heart is beginning to pound. I stop to take my jacket off. I'm so hot.

And then I think, 'What kind of person stops to take their jacket off when their daughter's missing?' And put it back on.

I see my partner, Brent. He's coming towards us, he's been to buy a paper. He registers the panic on my face, hears me burbling to him, "I've lost Matilda!" and heads back off towards the cafes.

I keep pushing Billy in the other direction, eyes desperately darting from group to group. I keep shouting.

A couple come up to me, a nice man, looks at me, asks, "What's she wearing? How old is she?" I feel like I see judgement in his wife's eyes, but again, can't believe I have brain space to think that.

I turn back around, eyes straining to see Brent, to see if he's walking towards us with a little red-head holding his hand. There he is. Shaking his head. No Matilda.

"What shall we do? What shall we do?" I yell over to him, and he shrugs, he doesn't know, other than to keep looking. Us and the nice man. Brent sprints off towards the park.

It's now that I start thinking - how long? How long until I call the police? I've watched TV. I know that if anything has "happened" to Matilda, the first minutes are crucial. But I don't know what to do with my first minutes. I realise we don't know what we're doing.

I realise that I don't have a plan.

Just a few days before, Matilda and I had been lying on her bed having a deeply unsatisfactory talk about stranger danger.

My astute little four-year-old had talked me in circles about whether she should refuse to talk to anyone if she was lost, or whether she should ask a responsible adult for help.

Why was it okay to ask a mummy with a child, but not a daddy with a child?

Could she ask a policeman? What does a policeman look like, again?

Should she let some lady in a uniform take her to some office?

And now, here we are.

Now my daughter is somewhere, alone, probably talking to a stranger. In fact, knowing my gregarious daughter, definitely talking to a stranger.  "Do you like my tutu? I was going to wear my Elsa dress, but mummy said it wasn't clean."

And I hadn't written our phone number in her shoe. And I hadn't. And I hadn't...

I realise that I don't know where I'm going, marching down the beachfront with the pram, yelling.

And I turn around one more time. There's a lady, perhaps 400metres away, and she's waving one hand high above her head.

In her other hand is a little girl's. A little red-headed girl wearing a pink tutu.

My world slides back into focus. My heart travels back from my throat.

Brent gets there first and immediately turns to look for me, running now with the pram.

It was the longest five minutes of my life.

And when I got to her, my girl, she got the longest hug of her's.

We are the luckiest parents alive. Our children are safe and healthy. We can hug them any time we want to.

And now I know what to tell her about getting lost. And I know to write our number in her shoe.

Because I get another chance at finding my daughter next time her little brother runs away. And now, I know how to look.

You see, she was in the cafe all along. The first place that I looked. The first place that her dad looked. A place that between us we had checked three times.

But she was at the back, behind the coffee crowd, crouching down near the toy box. And we were blinded by panic.

It was the longest five minutes of my life.

Have you ever lost sight of your child in public? What do you tell your kids to do if they're lost? 

* For the record. This is some sound advice about what you should tell your child to do when they are separated from you in a public place.

1. Stay put. Always tell them. "If you get lost, I will be looking for you.  So stay still, and I will always find you."

2. Shout for you. Preferably by your first name, rather than "Mummy!" Which can easily get lost in a crowd.

3. Ask for help. Yes. Ask. Ask a woman with a child. Statistically they are more likely to put more effort into helping, as men are aware of the suspicion that comes with their presence.

4. Once your child is old enough (say, 5 or more), teaching them to ask an official, such as a police officer is advised. But little kids can't distinguish uniforms from other similarly-coloured clothes.

5. Wait. Mummy or Daddy will find you.

Like this? Try:

This is why I don't let my kids talk to strangers. 

The day I became a mother is not the day I gave birth. 

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