Runaway

The bedlam hour (dinner-lunches-homework-bathing) is not an ideal time to run away from home.

Master Eight made a half-hearted attempt at this most inconvenient time of day.

A small growling for annoying his brother had not gone down well and, unaware, I got distracted with making dinner.

I was alerted to the sulks when I glanced out the kitchen window and was met by the sight of a sullen figure sitting right in my line of vision, head down but glancing up every now and then to check I had seen him.
I didn’t have time for this carry on so, in a bid at cheering him up, stuck my tongue out. After trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile, he got up and stomped off up the drive.

Minutes later, he must’ve decided it was going to be cold out there on the streets so returned inside to grab a sweat shirt. 

I locked the door behind him and tried to get down to the bottom of the matter while the mince sizzled on the stove behind me and the twins called out homework queries. However, he wasn’t having a bar of talking it through and kept shrugging me off so I took the stance of, if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.

“Well if you’re going to be sleeping on the streets, you’ll need a sleeping bag,” I told him. “It’s pretty cold out there.

“And you also need a knap sack – you just tie a hanky to a stick and throw it over your shoulder,” I added for good measure. He might as well look the part.

“No, I don’t care. I’m going,” he replied and tried to get out the locked door.

I didn’t have time to pin him down without the neglected dinner burning the house down so I asked his sister to bring me the phone.

“Yes, Constable Ian,” I said, using the familiar name of the policeman who has been visiting their school. “My son is about to run away from home. He is wearing a green hoodie so can you please look out for him and pick him up.”

“Mummy, this is hurting my tummy,” wailed my sensitive Miss Five, clutching her stomach and looking panicked.

“It’s ok,” I reassured her. “Mummy’s just tricking.” (Clearly that trick will not work on her if she ever tries running away from home.)

But Master Eight didn’t hear that. Giving up on running away, he’d returned to his spot outside the kitchen window where he went on sulking.

It just so happened it was “Taco Tuesday” – named by Master Eight and his favourite meal of the week – and both his siblings made sure he knew it.

“Mmm yummy tacos!” exclaimed Miss Five, loud enough to reach her brother’s ears.

We sat up at the table and began our usual talking about our day while Master Eight slunk back inside.

“I’m hungry,” he said, eyeing up our laden plates.

“Well you’re welcome to join us but you have some apologising to do first.”

He readily apologised and took up his usual spot at the table and was soon tucking into his beloved tacos and telling us about his day. We left off the last hour’s happenings.

It turns out this running away from home palaver isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.