The Runaway

This morning, against my better judgment, I decided to get dressed. After all, it was nearing 9 o'clock and we wouldn't want the neighbors talking now would we?

I had just made my sick daughter comfy in her bed with a drink of water, lots of pillows and a movie to take her mind off of her barking cough. My 18month old son was tending lovingly to her (pulling the pillows out from underneath her head, flogging her with a Dora storybook and pushing buttons on the T.V to further irritate her), so...confident that things were under control, I decided to duck into my room and shed my P.J's for some more appropriate attire.

I had barely pulled on yesterday's shorts and a somewhat unwrinkled tank top when I noticed the strange quiet. Normally, the roar of the ocean waves outside my window serve as enough white noise to damper the sounds coming from the rest of the house, but the relatively low surf this morning allowed me to hear the sudden, and unnerving, lack of noise.

I hurried out of my room, twisting my hair into the standard knot at the nape of my neck; a hairdo born out of the little time I have for myself in the morning and the hot and sticky Hawaiian climate.

Poking my head into my daughter's room, I noticed her lying quietly, watching her movie and cuddling her doll. Another couple quick glances around and I had pretty much covered all the square feet of my small condo, realizing my son was visibly absent from the picture.

That's when I saw it; the deadbolt conspicuously and uncharacteristically flipped to the open position and the front door standing slightly ajar. Without pausing for shoes I ran outside and down the 18 steps leading to the sidewalk below. Cursing the day he learned how to walk and immediately figured out how to walk down stairs, I surveyed my options of where he could have ventured. Certain he had headed down the sidewalk to the complex pool I calmly started after him, looking down the grassy slopes between each condo to make sure he hadn't left the path chasing after a gecko or mongoose.

As I passed three buildings and got closer to the pool gate, my mind started racing with all sorts of prime-time scenarios; having to phone my husband to tell him I couldn't find our son, my picture bumping out Britney Spears' in the Guiness Book under "Most Careless Moms Ever," and the horrifying thought of somebody snatching the cute little white-blonde boy (somewhat of a novelty on this largely dark skinned, brown haired island.)

I rounded the corner of the last building and stopped when I saw the gate to the pool area. No sign of my son. My pulse quickening, I immediately ascertained that if he had not headed down the sidewalk to the pool, it left only one other option...UP another 18 stairs to the parking lot and street.

This time I ran, my bare feet dodging sidewalk slugs and the occasional rock. When I neared the stairway leading up to our car and the condo parking lot I saw my neighbor - coming down the stairs carrying one of her little ones. Only...this was a white-blonde little guy, a stark contrast to her native hawaiian cuties. Sure enough, she had rescued my son who was making his way across the parking spaces to our truck. I thanked her, a little more than embarrassed, and as I tucked him safely into my arms and headed back up the stairs to our home, I rebuked him sufficiently and set him down inside, locking the deadbolt behind me once again. "I guess the neighbors will be talking after all," I thought.

As I turned around to face the pint sized runaway, I couldn't help but stifle a giggle. There he stood, looking up at me so innocently, sporting an odd necklace I hadn't noticed until that moment.

Apparently, before running away from home, my 18 month old had the thoughtful foresight to locate and place the lanyard carrying his mother's student I.D (complete with name and address) safely around his neck.