My best bud Rosemary had her youngest within weeks of when I had my youngest. The two boys pretty much grew up together and were fast friends and partners in crime by the time they turned five. We moms learned the hard way that letting those two out of our sight for a measly few minutes could spell disaster.

It was my turn to be sitter. The boys were playing nicely in our lower level family room. I went upstairs to make lunch, leaving them unsupervised for a bit. I couldn’t have been gone more than ten minutes—fifteen at most. I didn’t hear a sound coming from the family room when I went back down to let them know lunch was ready. The reason became obvious immediately. The two boys weren’t in the family room.

However, something else was—a mess of unprecedented proportions. The boys had unzipped and upended the bean bag chairs. Little white beads covered the brown carpet like hail. The game room floor around the pool table was covered with the talcum powder MG used on his hands. The odor of burnt matches lingered near the bar. Two deceased matches lay on the counter top. I heard the sound of running water coming from the half bath. What now? I yanked the door open to find the bathroom floor flooded. Both boys stood in front of the overflowing sink with their jeans down, each one attempting to wash bean bag beads out of his bottom. The two of them thought it would be fun to sit bare-bottomed on the bean bag beads after they dumped them on the carpet.

When I called Rosemary later on to explain, we both lost it before I was able to tell all. I can’t remember ever laughing that hard again.

It was Rosemary’s turn to sit. The boys were playing nicely in her back yard. She went inside to take a phone call. While she was gone, the boys went into the garage where her husband was restoring a car. They found an old car battery and shook the heck out of it, spraying its acid all over the garage and burning holes in their jeans. They went back outside and spied the next-door neighbor hanging laundry on her clothesline. One of the items was her teenage daughter’s bra. The two little miscreants waited until she was done and swiped the bra off the clothesline. They then ran into the woods behind our homes and buried it. During all this time, they were very, very quiet. Rosemary never suspected anything was amiss.

Unfortunately for the two tiny thieves, they were spotted committing the crime. Rosemary called to inform me that she received a phone call from her neighbor complaining that she had seen the boys take the bra from the clothesline and run into the woods with it. Our sons were five-year-old deviants. O the maternal embarrassment.

We each confronted our sons. Neither owned up. Rosemary and I decided that we had suffered enough indignity. It was time to pass the baton to the more intimidating parents with the deeper voices who routinely escaped having to deal with mischievous rugrats. When the dads got home from work, we filled them in on the boys’ misbehavior.

First, the dads set the two boys down together and extracted confessions concerning the battery acid splashed all over the garage. The boys could hardly deny complicity. The acid burn holes on their jeans gave them away. Once the dads had them dead to rights on the battery acid, the boys were putty in their dads’ hands. The dads pressed them to reveal what they did with the teenager’s bra. Both boys spilled their guts. They admitted burying the bra in the woods. The dads ordered them to go dig it up and bring it to them. The boys returned from the woods empty handed. They said they couldn’t remember where they buried the bra. The dads were not amused. It was late and growing dark. No matter. The dads got out flashlights. They marched the boys into the woods and demanded that they dig all over until they were able to find the spot where they buried the poor defenseless bra. They were gone for over an hour. Eventually, the dads returned with two exhausted, chastised boys and one soil-covered bra.

After those two mind-numbing incidents, with the exception of taking very quick bathroom breaks, Rosemary and I never again dared to leave our two little rascals unsupervised when they were playing together, especially if they were being quiet.

Our younger son recently reported, between guffaws, his ten-year-old daughter’s abortive flight from her gilded cage and from the meanest parents in the whole wide world. Her plan was not well thought out. In her haste, she chose to bolt in the midst of Michigan’s harsh winter.

Snow and ice covered the ground. The wind chill made below freezing temperatures colder still. She departed on foot, insisting she was leaving and never coming back.

She returned fifteen minutes later, red-faced from embarrassment or maybe from the wind chill, and went directly to her room without saying a word. To my son’s credit, he said he refrained from laughing until she slammed her bedroom door shut. Kids.

The incident reminded me of the time our firstborn decided to run away at the age of four and a half. Actually, most people thought he was a miniature forty-year old because he sounded so grown up over the phone. He wasn’t all that grown up on that one particular day. I think of it as my Leave it to Beaver moment in time.

I don’t recall exactly what set him off. It was probably the word “no” in response to whatever it was that he wanted to do.

FIRSTBORN: You’re the meanest mommy in the world.

ME: Then I guess I must be doing my job right.

FB: That’s not funny, Mommy.

ME: I wasn’t trying to be funny. [Actually, I was. The kid was a tough audience.]

FB: I’m really mad at you!

ME: Why?

FB: You won’t let me do anything!

ME: That’s not true. Sometimes mommies have to say no, like this time.

FB: Then I’m going to run away!

ME: [attempting to play it cool] Oh? Where will you live if you run away?

FB: With Missy.

ME: You’ll have to ask her mother if it’s all right first.

FB: [Thinks for a moment] I can go live with Jeff.

ME: You’d have to ask his mother too.

FB: [frowns] I’ll find someplace to go. [stomps down the hallway toward the door]

ME: [thinking fast] Don’t you want to pack some clothes first?

FB: [turns and nods]

ME: I’ll get a suitcase out for you.

FB: [packs suitcase mostly with favorite toys and only a few necessities] I’m all done.

ME: [coming up with another delaying tactic] Why don’t you call Daddy at his office to say good-bye before you leave? He’ll feel really bad if you don’t say good-bye to him. [And why should I go through this crisis alone?]

FB: Yeah. Okay.

I dialed the phone for the would be runaway and informed Macho Guy that his son wanted to say good-bye to him before he leaves home for good. Macho Guy laughed and asked if I was kidding. In reply, I handed the phone to Firstborn.

I only heard Firstborn’s end of the conversation. It went like this:

FB: Bye, Daddy … Yeah … Uh-huh … Mommy was mean to me …Uh-huh … Uh-huh … No … Uh-huh … I love you too … Okay … Bye, Daddy.

Firstborn hung up before I could get my hands on the phone to find out what Macho Guy said to him.

The little devil picked up his suitcase and started toward the front door. He stopped halfway there and turned around, an earnest expression on his face.

FB: Mommy, do you love me?

ME: Yes, of course I do.

FB: Do you want me to run away?

ME: No. It would make me very sad if you did.

FB: [a big grin spreads across his face] Okay, I won’t.

He trotted back to his room where he proceeded to unpack his suitcase as if he hadn’t a care in the world despite causing several gray hairs to sprout from my scalp. Kids.

Epilogue:

The phone rang shortly after Firstborn decided to remain in residence. It was Macho Guy, speaking and chuckling at the same time.

MACHO GUY: You are not going to believe this. It’s hilarious.

ME: What is?

MG: J.N. was standing in the doorway and he overheard me talking to our little runaway, but he only heard everything I said. After I hung up, he came into my office and said, “Oh my God. Is your wife leaving you?” He thought I was talking to you and that you were the one who was leaving. Isn’t that hysterical? We can’t stop laughing. [MG cracks up.]

Kids. Yes, considering the gender just mentioned here, I meant to write kids and for the very reason that sometimes makes me want to run away myself. ::sigh::

They bought the little tree. They also bought two boxes of ornaments and a plastic star, also on sale, to decorate the little tree’s branches. They rushed home to their apartment, delighted with their bargains, and set about assembling the little tree. When they were done, she thought the little tree had a very merry look about it. Its curved up branches reminded her of smiles.

The ornaments they bought happened to be all one color—blue. The ornaments were not the traditional red and green Christmas colors, but the little tree wore them well—for three years—until the couple moved, became a tiny bit more affluent, and had a child. They bought a much bigger artificial Christmas tree. They left the little tree, alone and lonely, tucked in its box in the attic of their new home. They put the little tree’s blue plastic star atop the much bigger tree and hung the little tree’s blue ornaments on its branches.

The couple had another child after a few years. Soon, prior to Christmas each year, the two young children brought home handmade Christmas ornaments from school. Their handmade ornaments were also added to the branches of the much bigger tree.

Years later, the couple and their children moved from the South to the North when the dad received a promotion at work. Their new home had a cathedral ceiling. It also had a central fireplace attached to a very ugly, very odd-looking indoor fountain. They dismantled the ugly fountain immediately and turned it into a planter.

That first Christmas in their cathedral ceiling home, they decided to buy a live Christmas tree. They went out and bought the tallest tree they could find. As tall as it was, it didn’t reach the ceiling, but it did look impressive. They had to climb on a ladder to decorate the highest branches. One of their firstborn son’s teenage friends was so awed by the tree that he dubbed it “The Christmas Sequoia.”

The much bigger artificial tree never made it out of its box that year, but the little tree did. The couple decided the little tree would look very cool set up in the planter surrounded by all the wrapped Christmas gifts. The Christmas Sequoia used up all the store-bought Christmas ornaments, so the mom suggested decorating it with all the handmade Christmas ornaments their teenage sons had created during their elementary school years. The little tree wore them with pride.

That year also produced The Christmas of Shame. The Christmas Sequoia failed in its duty to protect The Manger beneath its branches. During the night, the couple’s incorrigible American Eskimo devil dog abducted the little Baby Jesus from The Manger and had most of him for a midnight snack. The little tree witnessed the sacrilegious atrocity but it could not speak and was unable to testify. Fortunately, the couple discovered forensic evidence that convicted the incorrigible devil dog of the hideous crime.

Humbly, the little tree held the secondary place of honor in the planter for several more Christmases. Soon the grown children moved away and the couple decided to downsize. They moved to a raised ranch on a small lake. At Christmas, they took the much bigger artificial tree out of its box, Assembling the much bigger tree was difficult. They noticed signs of age and breakage, so they set it outside for the trash collector. The little tree had cause for alarm. It was older than the much bigger tree. It waited anxiously but no one came for it to toss it out with the trash.

Shortly after Christmas, a newer and even larger box joined the little tree in the attic. The label on the newer and even larger box identified the contents as a 7-foot tall pre-lighted artificial Christmas tree. The little tree realized another big tree had taken its place once again. Its little heart ached with disappointment.

The following Christmas, the couple took both tree boxes down from the attic. The great big pre-lighted artificial tree nabbed the place of honor to the left of the fireplace in the upper level living room where the Christmas decorations were tasteful and elegant. The little tree was relegated to the lower level family room where it was surrounded by garish guyified Christmas decorations suitable only for a man cave.

Fortunately for the little tree, the mom saved it from total humiliation. She got out the box filled with the handmade Christmas tree ornaments the couple’s grown children had created when they were in elementary school. Her eyes misted as she hung them on the little tree’s branches with care. She then placed a brand new angel atop the little tree. The little tree nearly burst with pride. Its lights twinkled brighter than ever that year.

It was the same story Christmas after Christmas—assemble the great big pre-lighted tree upstairs, the little tree downstairs—until one year the couple had an epiphany. Having to put together and take apart two artificial Christmas trees every year was a drag. They checked, and sure enough the little tree was small enough to fit under the stairs to the lower level without taking it apart. They could leave the lights and ornaments on the little tree, just remove the Angel from the top, and throw a sheet over it to keep it dust free before tucking it under the stairs. It was a stroke of genius. The storage nook under the stairs became the little tree’s new home.

Then came the year of the big change. The grown children had children of their own. They no longer wanted to travel with their children and all the Christmas gifts to visit their parents at Christmas. They wanted their parents to travel to visit them at Christmas from then on.

The dad lost most of his enthusiasm for Christmas decorating. He couldn’t see his way to doing much decorating if the couple wouldn’t be at home for Christmas. At first, he hauled out the great big pre-lighted artificial tree and set it up in the upper level living room. He didn’t bother with the little tree at all. It languished under the stairs for a few years that seemed to stretch into infinity.

About a week ago, everything changed again. On the morning after the family’s Thanksgiving celebration, Grandpa drafted his grandchildren to help decorate Grandma and Grandpa’s Christmas tree. He elected to leave the great big pre-lighted artificial tree in its box in the attic. He chose to retrieve the little tree from its home under the stairs instead.

The grandchildren shrieked with surprise when their grandfather slid the little tree out from under the stairs and removed the sheet that covered it. They followed him up the stairs to the upper level living room where he set the little tree on a round table in the lone place of honor to the left of the fireplace. The humble little tree was overjoyed. It had come full circle.

The decorating commenced with zeal, and soon the little tree was resplendent with both store-bought and handmade ornaments, beads and garlands, twinkle lights, and a bright shining Angel on top. Grandpa asked Grandma to adjust the little tree’s branches because they curved up too much. She decided not to. She left the branches just as they were because they made the little tree looked so very merry.

As a matter of fact, its curved branches made the little tree look as if it were smiling all over.