Little Runaway

Last night, I hosted book club for seven very lovely ladies (hi, Bookbabes).  Our evening was to begin at 7pm, which meant that my goal was to bake pumpkin bread, make a Heath bar trifle, and assemble a cinnamon pear-feta cheese-cranberry-chicken-salad-with candied pecans by oh, say 6:30 or so.

I called Michael at 4.  "Going to be home by 5?" I asked with a little too much chipper in my voice. 

"Um..." I heard Michael glance at the time on his desktop.  "Oh. It's 4:15 already.  Yeah, no.  I'll keep you posted."

Michael was working on a software upgrade, which I know from experience can last anywhere from two minutes to twelve hours.  I kept Michael posted instead, calling him in 45 -minute increments.  Finally, I called and said, "so you're not going to be home by seven."  Sigh, I would just have to juggle the toddler and all of the food prep as best I could, and forgo things such as a vacuumed floor and folded blankets.  Oh, who am I kidding?  You couldn't even see the floor, it was 2-feet-high thick with toys.

Oliver and I punted really well, though- I would wash and spin the first mound of Romaine lettuce, then read Oliver a book.  I set up bowls with water and spoons for him to "cook" with while I scraped the mixing bowl.  And to my surprised relief, most everything was finished by the time the doorbell rang with our first guest.  At that point, Oliver was in his high chair, eating a corn dog.

He sat eating, and stared as guest after guest arrived and we all became more animated in conversation.  I half-paid attention as he asked to get down from his high chair, and lifted him out as I continued to talk talk talk.  All of a sudden, I heard one of the girls say, "hey buddy, where ya goin'?"  I looked around the corner and found Oliver, who had picked up his favorite Teddy, reaching for the doorknob to the garage.  I knelt down, feeling bad I hadn't noticed him for a while.  "Ollie," I repeated my friend's question, "where are you going?"

"A walk," he stated with resolution and a bit of a frown.  He continued to fumble with the doorknob. 

"Oh, you know what?  It's too dark out now to go for a walk.  Let's find some toys."

"A walk," he clarified, facing the door, turning the knob this way and that. I felt really bad; it seemed to me that my best efforts at focusing attention on him earlier in the evening were for nothing.  For when my friends started arriving, I kinda stopped paying attention to Oliver.  He probably thought, fine then, I'll just leave if I'm that invisible.   Oh, I know, he's two, he probably didn't think something quite that dramatic; but clutching his Teddy bear and looking sad, I could help thinking that all he was missing was a long stick with a hankerchief tied to the end in a hobo sack. 

Michael made it home about ten minutes later, after we had kept Oliver from running away by the magical persuasions of pretzels and cookies. Oliver lit up.  "Daaaaddddyyy!!!!!!!" he cried, beaming and throwing his arms around Michael's legs.

So home he stayed, with Daddy reading him books and singing songs and dancing around upstairs.  Hopefully it will be this easily resolved when it happens again in about 13 years.