They all play the runaway card, at one time or other. I certainly did. I don't remember actually carrying out any of my plans, but I remember the mental exercise: Where would I go? What would I pack? Who would get my complete collection of Nancy Drew books after I left?

It was WAY too soon for me to be addressing this problem from a point of responsibility. Max is only six, after all. Not even six-and-a-half.

He started threatening us only after major scoldings. I didn't know what to make of it, didn't know how to handle it constructively. It seemed like I was failing miserably at that particular variety of parental pop-quiz.

Apparently he was getting exactly what he liked out of those exchanges, because he started playing his ace more frequently.

One day, he decided he'd run away because <musical sting> his best friend wasn't home when he phoned.

Of all the reasons kids run away from home, this one has to be in the top five. Imagine the nerve! Someone NOT being home when you call! Life can be so unfair.

I was pretty sure this one wasn't my fault. So, I decided it was a good opportunity to approach the situation in a completely new and different manner.

I helped him pack.
No nice suitcase or anything - he was running away after all. We NEED those suitcases. For vacations to Disney World. He got a plastic grocery bag.

He chose some clothes, showing remarkable prudence - after I reminded him there would be no parties or fancy occasions, once he ran away.

I talked him into some sensible shoes and a blanket. He'd likely be doing an awful lot of walking, and it might get cold at night, especially in the winter. In the woods. The DARK woods.

We talked about how I'd probably convert his room into a storage room for Christmas decorations. Agreed that his little sister could have ALL of his toys. Then I mused about his Sea World pass. Hmmmm. It had his picture on it. Who might I give it to?

I know, this sounds so mean.

Packed and fed, ready to go, he posed sourly while I took his picture. We'd want to remember what he looked like, I explained. We'd miss him terribly. But, after all, he was determined, right?

I kissed him goodbye, and closed the door after him.

Then I took up residence at the northeast window - binoculars in hand, heart pounding. You know, as any Mom would, who just invited her six-year-old to GET OUT.

After meandering down the driveway, pausing long and often at each major seam, he apparently came up with a plan. It may have been the resolute way he began striding down the sidewalk, or the light bulb that appeared over his head.

The Neighbors!
Dialing frantically, Anna picked up. "Anna, this is Susan. Max has decided that life is terribly unfair, and he's running away. If he knocks on your door, would you please tell him that you already have enough children, and he can't live with you?" She was only too game.

What I didn't count on is the news spreading down the block. And in the 15-minute interval that it took my son to set up "camp" on the sidewalk next to Anna's mailbox (a very smart camp, I must say - with blanket spread and clothes neatly folded in piles at the corners) the windows up and down the street were packed with pressed noses.

I am the worst mother on the planet.

Enough was enough. I nonchalantly wandered out, in his general direction. I approached respectfully and asked if he wouldn't consider coming back home. We'd miss him an awful lot, after all. And we HAD that room handy, and all those clothes and toys that seemed about right for him.

"Nope" he shook his head as best he could manage, without raising his chin from his crossed hands. "This is funner."

Oh.

This was not working AT ALL. I leaned down and gave him a kiss, warned him about raccoons at night, and then walked back to the house and took my place peeking through the drapes.

One of the neighbors sent a kid out. To try and talk sense into him, I guess. Oh, to be a fly on that mailbox!  But it didn't seem to work. The body language was precious. Lots of sidewalk kicking and toe calisthenics, fists wriggling in pockets.

The second kid had better luck. Which was quite a relief, because my rear end was starting to fall asleep.

At long last, Kid #2 helped him repack, and waved him off toward home. I always liked Kid #2. Never cared much for the name, though.

He breezed through the door, "I'm home!"

ThankYouGodThankYouGodThankYouGod. "Wait a minute - you don't live here any more. You should ring the doorbell." I sent him back out to correct his faux pas.

Ding dong.
"Oh hello. It's nice to see you. How have you been?" I let him toe-nudge at the Welcome mat for a few seconds.

"I wanna come home."
"That's wonderful. But the new rule in this house is 'Nobody's allowed to run away.' If you want to come back, you have to follow the rule."

"Okay. Can I have a snack?"

My boy was home!

I wonder if I should have mentioned that the 'new rule' expires in about 12 years.