My Little Runaway

Cue Slade’s “Run Runaway” (one of the best songs of the 1980s, people). Yesterday CootieBoy came home from school with a note from teacher that he had misbehaved in class. As such, I told him he wasn’t allowed to get on the computer. He sassed me, so I sent him to his room.

Five minutes later he came down, suitcase in hand, and announced he was going to run away.

“Okay,” I said matter-of-factly, “do you have any water in your suitcase? You might get thirsty.”

“No,” he replied.

I quickly got him a bottle of water and helped him put it in the backpack. I got down his coat and helped him into it, reminding him to wear the hood if it rained later that night. He gave me a look, trying to determine if I was serious.

I unlocked the front door and told him that I’d miss him, and for him to keep in touch. He slowly walked out the door, turning back to look at me one last time. I gave him a little wave, then shut the door, flipped the lock, and then walked away promptly ran to the window to peak out and see what he was doing. Thirty seconds later, the doorbell rang.

I went and opened the door, and CootieBoy smiled a dimpled smile and meekly asked, “Can I have dinner first?”

I ushered him back into the house and gave him some dinner. By the time the meal was over, running away was but a mere passing fancy.

At some point I asked him what was in the suitcase.

Toys.
His Bop-It game.
A pillow.
A blanket.
Hand sanitizer.

What all good hobos rode the rails with back in the day.