I was about five-years-old when my sister was born. By then, I'd had quite a bit of time to get used to being an only child, so I wasn't necessarily thrilled with the new addition to the family. All I cared about was that my mommy didn't have time to play Barbies with me anymore.
What can I say? I was a brat.
One night, I'd had enough, I guess. According to my mom, in a fit of self-righteous indignation (is there any other kind), I announced my plan to run away from home. That's right. I was going to run away to my Aunt Shirley's house and I was never coming back.
Aunt Shirley lived about 100 yards away.
My mom could have handled the situation in a dozen different ways. She chose the best; she offered to help me pack. I packed up my little green suitcase with all my Barbies. My mom suggested some clothes or maybe a toothbrush.
By the time I was all packed and ready to go, my mom noted that it was Aunt Shirley's suppertime; perhaps I had better wait until after I'd had my supper before running away. That seemed reasonable.
By the time we had finished supper, my mom noted that it had grown dark. Was I sure that I wanted to walk down to Aunt Shirley's in the dark?
That didn't seem reasonable. I would run away tomorrow.
Tomorrow came and went, and I didn't run away. I won't say that there weren't other times that I wanted to; what teenage girl doesn't want to run away at some point.
I think there's still a bit of that five-year-old in me. Not the bratty part...I hope. But the one who just wants to take off at the end of a really bad day. Not forever. Just for twenty-four hours. Just long enough to check into a hotel under an assumed name, take a long bath in the whirlpool, order room service, and get a good night's sleep...