My wife and I were ecstatic when our son Jake started walking. There are a significant amount photos and video clips available to prove this. We made a pretty big deal out of it. He even took his first unassisted steps in front of all of our friends at a party we were hosting. The round of applause was enough to inflate his ego for years to come. In the blink of an eye, he became more coordinated and progressed to trotting along and even climbing the stairs. But then, to our dismay, he began running. More specifically, he began running away from us. In public. In parking lots. In stores. In restaurants. And, he did so at track star speed. The first time this occurs, your heart tends to shoot right up into your throat. All of your worst nightmares flash before your eyes in a nanosecond: sharp corners, strangers with candy, drunk driving teenaged Facebook fanatics in mid-status update, rabid wild dogs foaming at the mouth and demanding to be played with, poison ivy, exotic poisonous snakes, sink holes, a simple stumble-and-fall that creates significant scaring and disfigurement…whatever. It’s scary. Not for him, of course, but for his parents.
Jake is almost 3 years old now, and his baby brother Adam is a year and a half. Adam is a gifted walker and runner in his own right, but for the most part, when we travel anywhere on foot, like, for example, from the car to the door of wherever we’re going, I carry him in my right arm and hold Jake’s hand with my left. It’s simple crowd control that is typically quite successful. The other day, as we arrived at their Montessori daycare, we were walking along the sidewalk in this fashion when Jake broke my weak grip with his sweaty little hand and darted away so fast that I could barely react. I have to admit, I was impressed at first, thinking, “Man, my dude has wheels! Not a bad 40 yard dash for a 2 year old…” But that brief fantasy of him stealing third base in Game 7 of the World Series was immediately replaced with panic.
With Adam (a 26 pound pudge ball who has us wondering if there are Samoan genes lurking somewhere in our bloodline) tucked high and tight like a football, I went after Jake. He sped along the side of the school, one elbow pointing high in the sky, as this is his unique running style. He reached the grass of the back schoolyard in seconds flat. Adam and I followed along in hot pursuit. I couldn’t figure out where he was going or why until I realized he seemed to be on target for a nature path that lead into a hilly, wooded area. I had to make sure not to run too fast because I didn’t want to shake up my Adam too much. A quick glance at his face was enough to know he wasn’t bothered by this at all; he was all ear-to-ear grins and giggles and having a blast. And, judging by Jake’s squeals and long strides, this was fun for him, too. I, however, was in hell. Running in a business suit and tie through a muddy field on a summer day, carrying a 26 pound Samoan baby, all the while considering the horrors of my toddler heading into a forest unaccompanied, were shaving a month-per-second off of my life.
Adam and I were closing in on Jake, but then he picked up speed. He let out a wild squeal, which seemed to indicate that he was shifting into a higher gear, and Adam and I began to lose ground. Without breaking his stride, Jake hit the trail at the edge of the wooded area and disappeared. I screamed his name, but there was no response. Adam and I reached the trail and spotted Jake climbing up a hill; treacherous and rocky with gigantic mud puddles, tree branches and mystery weeds along the side. I tucked Adam’s head to protect him from the hanging branches and leaves and headed in. Adam yelled something unintelligible and laughed – he was thrilled. Jake started shouting “No No!” as he slid and stumbled up the hill, and I could hear him panting. He was about twenty feet away at this point and appeared to be running out of steam and losing traction.
About midway up the hill, which happened to lead to a heavily-traveled running and biking trail, we caught him. He screamed and tried to break my grasp, kicking and crying, “Stop! Let me go Jungle! I want Jungle!!! AHHHHHHH!” A lady up on the trail, sporting pink fluorescent running gear and way too much jewelry for exercise, stopped her speed walking session and peered down into the “jungle” at a thirty-three year old guy in a suit wrestling a couple of toddlers. “Everything ok?” she shouted. I grunted back, “No…yes, we're fine.” She wasn’t convinced and stood there watching as I scooped Jake up into my free arm and carried both of my sons down the muddy hill and out to the backyard of the school.
Note: It is humanly possible to sweat through an undershirt, dress shirt, and coat in under 5 minutes. Even my tie was soaked in sweat and my shoes, once black leather Foot-Joy’s, were now the type of kicks you might find along the freeway next to some road kill. Adam had leaves and prickly forest-type vegetation caught up in his hair, socks and t-shirt. Jake face was covered in mud and dirt, which had him looking like one of those black and white photos of old football players from the archives of Sports Illustrated. He lost his shoe somewhere in the fracas, as well, but I didn’t care. I’d go back for that later. We took a knee in the school yard, near the tiny vegetable garden and orange plastic picnic tables. I checked my temper and proceeded to scold him in the most even tone I could muster:
Me: “Jake. We NEVER run away from Daddy. Shame on you, Jake. That’s dangerous and naughty. Why did you DO that?”
Jake: “I GO! To the JUNGLE!”
As if on cue, Adam ripped a nice audible fart that only a good Samoan baby can pull off. I didn’t even laugh. That’s saying something. This was a serious situation. We all went inside the school looking like a bully had beaten us up for our lunch money, and then decided to drag us all through the woods for good measure. When we entered Jake’s room, all of the kids and teachers stopped what they were doing and stared at us. Jake then peed his pants. As a puddle formed on the linoleum, I explained to the teachers what had happened. They weren’t surprised. All the children loved going on nature walks in “the jungle”. It was their new jam. I helped them clean up the puddle and change Jakes clothes as Adam became the classroom mascot for a few minutes. We had a brief intervention with Jake, explaining to him that nature walks are for class time only and that running away from parents or teachers is unsafe. Jake said, “OK!” and ran off to join his friends in a spirited game of Pin the Tail on Baby Adam.
Wasn’t the movie Breaking Away about bike riding in Indiana? The townies beat the rich kids in a bike race or something? Guess the title of this article doesn’t really match the content…or does it? Hmm. Is my son’s constant desire to let go of my hand and run out into traffic, or into a forest, or behind the garage through the compost pile, or dart into the ladies bathroom at BW3 really just his attempt to defeat the oppressive daddy class and achieve toddler emancipation? Jeez, I don’t know. That’s a stretch. As I write this, I feel bad, like I’m making my dude sound like the most ill-behaved little hellion this side of Leif Garrett (felt like someone need to reference that guy today). He’s a great kid, so smart and funny and happy. But, like that song by Queen, he wants to break free. I'm confident this is the type of situation Freddy Mercury had in mind when he penned those lyrics.
Any advice on how to curb this behavior would be welcome and appreciated (note: I don't really mean that. Keep it to yourself). I recently visited our library to try and find a book that would hit home the dangers of running away. Of the thousands upon thousands of titles on the shelves, not a single one tackled the subject head-on. I would write one, but, as you see, I have nothing to offer. I guess my book on the subject would be about two pages long. Page 1: I suggest that you hold on tighter to your kid. Page 2: You should probably issue punishments for breaking away.
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