Lost boys

As you can imagine, losing your kid is a kind of take-it-to-the-grave story; not one that you might share with your local social service worker over coffee and donuts. However, since this frightful (and infuriating) event has happened to me on more than one occasion, I decided that I cannot possibly be alone. Surely scores of attentive parents have “lost track” of their precious cargo more than once over the years, and have simply sworn themselves to secrecy? I’m convinced that this is so.

The first time it happened to me, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. All it took was a split second of my diverted attention for the boys to escape into the back yard…in the rain…wearing nothing but diapers. It didn’t seem to bother them one bit as they cheerfully drove their dump trucks around the yard, screaming ecstatically at the freedom they had found.

Their first outdoor escape was just into the back yard, but the second time, when Dad had to leave the fence to check on them, they were on the ball field in Daddy’s dugout. This is when we started looking for a child proof lock for the back gate. Now all we need is electricity along the top and a row of barbed wire.

While it’s hard to admit, it has been more than once that Cooper has gotten out of the backyard and taken Brisco and Bessie the dog with him. Usually, either Randy or I see them as they are making a run for it. We drudge outside to get them and drag them back while they all three wear looks of bewilderment, not having a clue why we are so upset.

We did find that child proof lock, but it seems it’s more effective when we use it. I recently heard from a neighbor that Cooper and Bessie had been out jogging thru the school yard while Brisco and I had gone to the store. (Well, I guess I’d call him a neighbor. He lives three blocks over.) Come to find out, Daddy was on the computer (and the telephone) and the lock was not engaged. I didn’t ask for details on the resolution of that situation. I’m just glad everyone lived through it.

Not two days after I mustered up the nerve to rib ole Dad about his “lost boy” experience, I had one of my own. The boys were playing outside after supper as I was clearing the dishes from the table. I had been looking out the window every few minutes to make sure they were alright. I turned to wipe the kitchen table, when I looked up to see my neighbor walking into my open, backyard gate. I knew immediately why she had come.

I met her at the back door with my shoes in hand. As I stomped off after the boys, she tried to keep pace with me, but could probably tell by my set jaw and the smoke coming out of my ears that this was something I preferred to do alone. She stood at my back gate while she watched me march across the baseball field, through the school yard, and onto first base of the softball field where I finally caught up with the baby. I could see the dog, but my first born, the instigator and escape artist, was nowhere in sight. After scanning the area, I noticed a small figure hunched down on the back side of the outfield fence. It was Cooper, trying to pick stickers out of his shoeless feet.

When I finally reached him, I really wanted to force him to walk on those stickery feet the entire half mile back to our house, but instead, I pulled the stickers out, looked him straight in the eye and told him he would be getting a very hard spanking as soon as we got home.

We walked the whole way home in silence, me with my gnarled face and flaming head, Brisco with his sippy cup and snotty nose, and Cooper with his sore feet and the anticipation that he was about to get the beating of a lifetime.

As we neared our house, I could see in the distance a small figure, still standing by the gate of our back yard. I knew at once that it was our Gladys Cravits-like neighbor who had spotted the boys escape from the front window of her house. I thought it strange that she was still standing there waiting, when it occurred to me that from my demeanor and the looks of my boys-both crying, faces streaked with dirt and snot, no shirt, no shorts, no shoes-she might actually have been afraid for their well being.

I humbly thanked her for her “attentiveness” to my children’s escapades, and assured her that we were all fine and that after a long, hot soak in the tub we would all be turning in early. She didn’t seem convinced because it took me another 10 minutes to make my own escape into the house to tend to my now delirious little runaways. Thirty minutes later she rang the door bell, and an hour and a half after that, she left a message on my machine. I’m afraid if she witnesses one more incident, she may decide to send over a social worker or at the very least put us in her prayer chain.

After soaking, spanking and spending the rest of the evening alone in his room, I think Cooper finally got the picture: “I am not wowd to weave the yard wiff out a dult.” Although with a two-year-old I am never quite sure of which concepts he has a firm grasp until the excitement begins to unfold.

There are times I think I might not survive this life of raising two such adventuresome boys. Of course with the job of raising any child, there is always a little drama to endure. I guess it’s drama and adventure now with two little boys or drama and attitude later for those raising girls. I think I’ll take the adventure any day.

And that’s All in a day’s work!