May 29, 2002 4 min read

I was packed and ready to go. Not having had the pleasure (or disdain) of having my own children, I am unable to show much empathy toward parents.

All I can really do is compare what they are telling me with how the child feels, using my own experiences from the very early days of my tenure on this planet.

So, when a co-worker appeared one morning exasperated with the behaviors of a couple of her kids, I listened but I had no basis for comparison from the parents’ point of view.

But after hearing how the kids were reacting it reminded me of times when I was young.

I mean, kids are not little adults. They can’t be impermutably joyful because, after all, even though tiny, they are also people. And people have problems.

They get cranky. They get upset. Things go wrong in their day, too. They get up on the wrong side of the bed.

I don’t recall many days when I was upset or out of shape over something. For the most part I think I was a happy, although quiet, kid. Growing up in the country gave my brother and I a dearth of playmates. He and I tried to do things together but whatever it was usually quickly degenerated into an argument, name-calling or fisticuffs.

That means I usually entertained myself, sprawled on the floor with a heap of toy soldiers or outdoors playing the lone Lone Ranger without Tonto.

But I had my moments.

My memory is vivid about one such occasion.

I had been trying to inveigle my mother, probably working hard to obtain a promise to let me do something or to get money for a new toy or some such major childhood issue. I don’t think she was in all that great of a mood because the response was negative. I kept pushing. After all, kids are supposed to do that, right? She just dug in harder. In the end, I think I was sent to my room for a time.

Well, it was just enough time for me to fume and build the episode into an event of mountainous proportion. And I was determined to do something about it.

When I was finally released I had in hand my suitcase, packed with a shirt and pants (I figured the underwear and socks I had on would be sufficient). I had also donned my coat and hat.

I marched silently to the living room and took up position in a stuffed chair.

Mom hadn’t noticed this because she had pardoned me from a distance, calling upstairs to announce my freedom.

So, there I sat. Finally, probably curious why I was so quiet after having been incarcerated for some time, she casually glanced into the living room. I have no idea what she thought, although some years ago, laughing, she had recounted this event to me.

“Where do you think you’re going?’ she asked. I mean, mom is no dunce. She knew immediately that if I had a suitcase and my hat and coat on I was ready to travel.

“Grandma’s.’

Now this is the strange part of my recollection. Mom didn’t ask “why’ right away. Instead she asked “How are you getting there?’

“Dad will take me when he gets home from work,’ I replied, saying it in my best matter-of-fact, although nonchalant, tones.

I think I remember her chuckling.

So, there I sat. I don’t remember for how long. I remember dad coming home from work and me asking (you weren’t about to TELL dad something) him to take me to my grandmother’s.

I don’t remember him asking why either. Likely because mom had headed him off at the pass and told him all about our day. Eventually I got tired of waiting and put my stuff away, going back to my vocation at that time: playing with my toy horses and soldiers.

But I was jubilant. I had made my stand. I had shown the adults that I wasn’t going to take it anymore.

I think the reality of it was mom didn’t press the issue because for several hours that day, between my room-punishment and sitting in that chair prepared to leave, I had been out of her hair.

Would I have gone if my bluff had been called? That’s my secret. And so it shall ever remain.

Have a good day.

Jim Pletcher is the Herald-Standard’s business editor. E-mail: jpletcher@heraldstandard.com.