You have to be careful what you ask for. I’ve asked my family to contribute stories to this section–or remind me of stories I’ve forgotten–so Mom obligingly reminded me to add the following to my Tattle Tale Chronicles … embarrassing though it may be. This one reveals entirely too much about my character. So before I get started, I would like to state for the record that I am no longer a brat. (No comments from the Peanut Gallery, please,)
I remember getting mad at Mom and Dad, I just don’t remember the reason. All I know is, they must have done something heinous, because it forced me to draw a terrible line in the sand.
“I’m running away from home.”
I was about 5 at the time and dead sure of their response: a few tearful protestations, an abject apology or two and their solemn oath to never, ever do whatever-it-was-they-did again. I hated to be so hard on them, but a lesson had to be taught.
Unfortunately, Mom and Dad hadn’t read the script. If they had, they never would’ve said ….
“Okay. Would you like us to help you pack?”
I’m pretty sure I lost the initiative right there, but never let it be said I was the type to back off a perfectly good plan, just because it wasn’t working. Obviously, I’d simply have to take things a bit further than anticipated.
“Uh….”
“Okay,” said Mom, sweet as pie and twice as helpful, “let’s put your clothes in this sack.”
A sack???
Oh, the indignity of it all! Not only were they helping pack my things–in a paper sack, yet!–but all the while they were chatting cheerfully about how they hoped I’d write when I got settled, just to let them know I was okay. The next thing I knew, Mom picked up me and my sack and plopped us both on the doorstep.
“Bye, now,” she said … and shut the door.
I’m not sure how long I stood there, blinking in the late-afternoon sunlight, confused by the Twilight Zone twist they’d thrown into my plot, but I eventually decided to call their bluff. They didn’t think I’d really go, that was all. Well, I’d show them. I’d hide nearby and wait. First would come the anxious glances out the front-facing picture window, perhaps accompanied by a telltale wringing of hands. Had their little darling really gone? Was she safe? God in heaven, what had they done? When they started making frantic phone calls and weeping, roaming the streets as they called out to beg me to come home, I’d condescend to return.
The tall hedge separating our house from the neighbors’ was conveniently equipped with a small hole, a snug hollow perfectly suited to me, my sack and my injured feelings. Into the leafy bower I crawled to await developments.
Minutes dragged into hours. Every once in a while, members of my family would appear at the window … laughing? Watching TV? Spoiling the heck out of my little sister, Vicki? Okay, I admit I gradually became a tad concerned that my parents either A) were mentally deficient and unable to grasp the awful thing they’d done, or B) completely heartless and really didn’t love me at all. My life started to feel like one of those really bad first-grade readers:
See Mom fix dinner.
See Mom, Dad and Vicki sit down.
See them eat and laugh and talk and COMPLETELY IGNORE THE FACT THAT THEIR DELICATE FLOWER WAS OUT ON THE MEAN STREETS, PROBABLY EATING MOLDY BREAD CRUSTS FROM A TRASHCAN AND LOOKING FOR A STORM DRAIN TO SLEEP IN!
Curses! My plan had gone completely awry. I was starting to itch; my stomach was fixin’ to gnaw a hole in my backbone; there sat my family, stuffing their faces and having the time of their lives without me; and, to top it all off, it was getting dark. Time to go to Plan B.
Crawling out of my hidey-hole, I straightened my clothes, took a firm grip on my sack and marched to the front door. I knocked smartly, the door opened … eventually. Head high, “nose in the air,” I waltzed by Mom, announcing with regal dignity on my way to the table, “I’ve decided to forgive you.” Needless to say, I served myself.
You know, it takes hardhearted parents to pack your clothes in a sack and set you outside. Liked to scarred me for life.
Of course, that was nothing compared to the disgust I felt when I found out Mom had watched me crawl into that dirty, prickly hedge. Can you believe it? She could see me perfectly well–did, in fact keep her eye on me all day long–and purposely put dinner on the table, so the three of them could enjoy it right there in front of God and everybody, including my poor, starving, heartbroken self.
I’d threaten to run away again, but I’ve outgrown the hedge.
