Never, Ever Run Away. Capital R, Capital A.

We are going to step in the way back machine to revisit an episode from childhood. It is not morbid, not disturbing, nor anything that will make you silently weep for me. Nothing like that. I must have been 4 or 5, maybe 6 but probably no older and was mad at my mother for some reason. Perhaps I was not allowed to do something or I had gotten scolded for something I probably shouldn't have been doing...the reason, specifically, escapes me. It may or may not be selective memory at this point in time. So. I decided that I wasn't going to put up with it anymore and I was running away. Overreaction? Yes. Melodramatic? Check. True? Yep.

I had at the time a suitcase (I believe it was called a train make up case or something) that was little, opened at the top like a jewelry box, had satin lining the top and bottom and had a mirror installed inside the top lid. It was blue and it....was....cool. So, it became my Running Away Bag. Now, the letters have changed at this point as I have created....already....different dramatic scenarios in my head. Running away, making it on my own, I'll show Mom, maybe making it big in Hollywood, being taken in by a mega wealthy kind family, you get the picture. So.

I pack my Running Away Bag with the absolute essentials according to a 4/5/6 year old. Toothbrush (dental hygiene always important...you'll note I forgot the toothpaste.), Barbie Doll WITH a change of clothes, coloring book and crayons (not the big 64 pack, just the regular 12 count box) and a change of underwear. Probably a cookie or two. Or ten.

I walked across the backyard, through the neighbor's back yard and realized, as I was walking down the next street over....I had to go to the bathroom. Uh-oh. Not BATHROOM, just bathroom. Now the dilemma begins. I was mad at my mom, and a stubborn brat that day. I had never gone poddy outside, so that would be interesting. But...I was mad at my Mom and I was determined I was not going back to the house. I had made a clean break, always look forward, there is no going back (Mind you, I was two backyards away...it wasn't like I had walked miles and miles.)

At that time, the other side of the street was still prairie grass and no houses. The grasses were tall, I was shorter than I am now....I could do it. Big girls went poddy outside if they had to go. I was an independent woman, no one could tell me what to do, NO ONE was the boss of me! So, across the street I went. I found a clump of tallish grass, pulled down my shorts and worried (But not too much) about peeing on my shoes and started peeing. Buzzing ensued. Huh?

Seems I had taken up camp right on top of a ground hornets' nest.....or whatever flying, stinging insect lives in the ground. RIPPED my pants back up, running and screaming the whole way (across the street and two backyards) home, followed by---what I imagine today a cloud that looks like the cloud that follows Pigpen in the Peanuts---screaming and crying for my Mom.

Who, quite frankly, could have been a little more relieved to see me after I had Run Away. Yes, she had no idea that I had, in fact, Run Away, but she could have "sensed" it, grieved, sat on the back step (if we had a back step) crying and wringing out her handkerchief scanning the horizons for her lost, beloved daughter. (Really....it is pretty shocking my mom is not a drinker. I cannot fathom dealing with my drama from her perspective.) So. Let's just say that absolutely none of that scene happened.

What did happen was she started screaming at me and (from my perspective) slapping the crap out of my arm, my head, my back, my stomach. I am thinking, "What gives? How the hell did she know I was even Running Away?" From her perspective: Daughter. Running at her. Screaming bloody murder. Crying like all get out. Bees/hornets/stinging things sticking out of her skin, flying all around her. WHAT THE HELL DID SHE GET INTO??

She is screaming in a continuous rotation, "WHAT?!?!? What happened? Where are all these coming from? WHAT??? I can't understand you when you are crying and screaming!! Get inside! Go! Go! Get inside!" Repeat. All the while, me with the wailing siren kid scream of unintelligent babbling. Maybe a air-sucking sob or two. Or ten.

At this point, we are now inside the house, with the swarm still swarming. My mom has a flyswatter in one hand, a dishtowel in the other, flailing around like some sort of Transformer Superhero who secret skill is Windmill Arms of Death. (Still screaming at me: WHAT DID YOU GET INTO???) Little bastards never knew what hit them. She swats at me, she swats at the air, she swats at the ceiling, the door, the chair, the stove. They were everywhere. Me still crying, sobbing, sucking in air, standing in the middle of the room, arms hanging limply at my side, snot running down my face, bees/hornets/stinging things buzzing around me and occasionally dive bombing my head.

Once Windmill has gotten most of them, we are headed towards the bathroom, maybe it was the bedroom. I am still screaming/crying/sobbing. Clothes off. Still screaming. They were inside my shirt, in my hair, thankfully, I don't remember any in my shorts or grunders. That would have been...not good. My mom is checking me over for stingers still sticking out, and I am instructed to get into bed. She leaves and comes back with a bowl with baking soda and water mixed into a paste.

Later, I am laying in bed arms and legs spread out, covered in white baking soda paste-y dots all over---mostly arms and legs but also my stomach and neck....and face....and feet. My mom pissed as hell that I scared the bejeezus out of her with my screaming and crying and swarm of pain following after me. When I confessed to running away, she softened up. I think she was confused and I can no longer remember the reason for the Running Away in the first place, so I don't remember her reaction to that information.

She stayed with me for a while until I fell asleep (worn out from all that Drama.), caressing my head (where there wasn't a paste-y dot), soothing me and telling me it would be okay. Occasionally, she would have to climb up on the bed to swat at a errant insect buzzing up in the corner of the ceiling.

I am picturing my dad coming home from work and asking how our day was and getting this story, peeking in on me playing on my floor with my Barbies, covered in baking soda paste dots. Ahhhh, parenthood. At this point, my younger brother was around, I don't remember what he was doing. but from my mom's perspective, two kids and the Flying Stinging Insect Incident makes for an unusual (Usual??) day. If I was five or six, then she could have possible been pregnant with my younger brother or he was a very tiny baby.

Really. I am surprised my mom doesn't drink.