A Lesson in Leaving

When I was very young (the actual age eludes me at the moment), I got it into my head that I was going to escape my current life and run away to something far more fantastic. It was during one of the many time-out sessions my mother subjected me to, after I had done something too mischievous to be ignored, that I was forced to sit in my room and think about my actions. Several moments into it I was staring at the wall and contemplating the utter cruelty of the situation when the perfect solution popped into my head.  Of course! The only logical way to dramatically escape imprisonment is through the second story window. So I got all my bed sheets and hastily tied them together, throwing one end of the make-shift rope out the window with the other attached to my bed post. In my head the romantic notion of fleeing out the window was necessary in this situation. And at the very least I’d be known for daring escapes and clever schemes.

 I suppose you could blame it all on too much television, but really the stupidity was all mine in thinking it would work.  And while for an instant the thought of falling crossed my mind and made me hesitate, the idea that my mother would feel terrible for punishing me and give me ice cream and hugs and lots of well deserved sympathy did enough to stifle my fears almost immediately. Overall I saw it as a win-win situation.

                Luckily for me I had forgotten that my door didn’t lock, and just as I had one little leg dangling out the window my mother walked in unexpectedly. In a split second I saw her facial expressions change from confusion to shock, followed by horror and then anger. I can imagine I had that deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression as she ran over and pulled me back into the room temporarily deafening me with that high pitched mom-shriek I knew so well. The rest is a blur with exception of the many time-outs I received afterwards all of which were supervised and far less interesting.

However, my desire to escape didn’t subside after my first scheme was thwarted. I’m not entirely sure what I was looking for, although I do know that I wanted my family to be completely devastated at the loss of me, and abundantly overjoyed at my triumphant return as a worldly and important person. The impact it would have on them was far more critical for me to achieve than what I was going to do when I was gone.

  So I decided that my next plan would involve direct honesty with my mother. I would tell her flat out that I was leaving without any possibility of being talked out of it and she would just have to accept my resignation from the family. And of course once she heard that I was leaving to make my way in the world she would not only admire me for my courage and strength of will, but she’d be heart-broken that she ever punished me in the first place for anything. She’d drop all of her grown-up duties and have tea parties and play dress up, and let me touch all of the breakable things in the house just because I was safe and at home. I was dead certain that this would work.

With a lot of deliberation I packed up my little pink suit-case with the necessary acourtaments: Barbies, a cup and saucer for tea, a hair brush, I think a toothbrush, and absolutely no articles of clothing. Sighing heavily I took the time to say my goodbyes to each and every stuffed bunny and bear and dog in my room before closing the door on my old life forever. And with my head held high I marched down the stairs and announced “I’m leaving!” It was my moment of victory… and there was no answer. Ok maybe she was preoccupied.
When I finally did find my mother she didn’t seem as affected as I would have liked. In fact she seemed to be taking things far too lightly for my liking but at least I had done my best to get my point across. I vehemently stated that I was moving out and if she needed me for anything I would be living on the porch from that point on (because that was about as far away as I knew to go).

After a half an hour of sitting on the front steps my Barbie dolls got boring and there was simply no tea to drink. I sat there scowling at the idea that another plan had failed, and my mother probably knew it all along. Why hadn’t she come out and begged me to return? Where were the tears and exclamations of grief? It just didn’t make sense to me. I packed up my little suitcase, adjusted my facial expression so that she wouldn’t see defeat, and marched back through the front door. No one was there to greet me but I knew she’d be listening so I proclaimed as authoritatively as possible, “I’ve decided to return.” In which my mother replied, “Glad to have you back.” It completely threw me off to be honest, because I was glad to be back too.