He's a Little Runaway

A few weeks back the boys and I were coming in from work/school like normal. I had way too many things in my hands, they were running around out front in every direction except towards the house and, I swear, I heard the ground doves laughing at my attempts at rounding them up from their positions on the telephone lines above. Like a said, normal.

We burst through the door with the quiet gusto of a swat team during a drug raid. I tell the boys to take their shoes off and walk the 15 steps over to the dining room table where I unload the previously mentioned too many things onto a chair for sorting. This was when I noticed it was unusually quiet in my house. I look back and realize that Evan is not there with Nick. I also realize that the front door is slightly ajar.

I yank the door open and look out front, but do not see Evan anywhere. I run upstairs to search for him in their bedrooms while calling out to him. Evan has recently discovered the entertainment value in a well played game of hide-and-go-seek, so I'm used to him not responding when I call for him. The more panic in my voice, the less likely he is to respond. This is when I call out Shawn for back up.

While I'm looking under mattresses and inside toy boxes Shawn burst out the front door yelling Evan's name. He makes it down our front lawn and hears a voice from around the corner shouting back, "we have him!" Shawn runs down the street towards the mystery voice. This is about the time when I really start to panic (I'm still inside and know nothing of "The Voice" nor do I have any clue where my two-year-old is). I run out front and see Shawn carrying Evan back towards the house from several houses away - ACROSS THE STREET!

Come to find out that Evan not only crossed the street, but he ran down the block and around the corner. This must've been when he thought it was a good idea to go back out into the street to play - right when a car was headed towards him! Lucky for Evan and even luckier for us two angels dressed as grandmothers were walking their grand-daughter around the block and saw him. They got him out of the street and asked him which way his house was. The little bugger knew so they started walking him in the direction he pointed. This is the point in the story where I'm literally squatting on the ground trying not to throw up on my own feet from the panic, anxiety, terror, adrenalin and, finally, relief that I'm feeling.

The grandmother-angels where very understanding of how a two-year-old could escape a house in the bat of an eye and didn't find it necessary to call in Child Protective Services or anything, but they did get a good laugh out of us.

Once I could stand up again without feeling dizzy I marched directly into my mother's house. I did not greet her, I did not acknowledge my father, I simply demanded that she "lift the curse." I am well aware that at many points in my childhood and adolescence my mother mumbled the words, "I hope you have one just like you," to me. I wanted her to take it back because this little stunt proved to me that Evan is much more like me than I care to admit. My mother simply grinned and told me it was too late. I ask her, "don't you care about the personal safety of your grandchild? Take it back!" She explains that she would if she could, but that what's done is done. She also points out that she had no idea she would be living next door to me and my children when she mumbled those words all those years ago. Had she realized she would have to live through it all over again, I'm sure she would have bitten her lip.

It seems all too clear to me that the curse cannot be lifted and I am stuck raising a little monster who acts just like his mother. The good news is that he inherited his father's good looks and eventually I mellowed out, so there's a decent chance he will too.