Our Little Escapee

I can thank my son for helping me stay fit.

In Boston Public Schools they are called "runners."  In Collier County Public Schools, they are called "elopers."  In our own home, we call them "escape artists."  Regardless of the name, our son one of them.  These are students that bolt out of the room and require a search party to find them.  This is our son the moment he learned to crawl.  He is always attempting to run away.

It's funny when you think about it, because literally our son does not yet walk.  But he can crawl faster than a cheetah runs.  When does he pick up speed and book it out of a room?  Whenever and wherever there is an open door.

At the toddler play area of the Children's Museum, our son sits near the swinging door and tries to crawl out every time another child walks in.  In the library, he presses his face against the glass door and waits for it to be opened.  In the homes of other children that we visit for playdates, he bypasses all of the toys and searches the walls and corners for an exit, through which he will eventually be found.  At a recent birthday part, we had no sooner entered than he had crawled right back down the hallway to the exit.  At the playground, he finds his way right back to the gate entrance and yells in frustration when it is locked.

Which leaves me wondering many things.  From what is he running away?  People?  Noise?  New activities?  Forced interactions?  Why is he so interested in leaving wherever we are?  Why does he cry when I pick him up and bring him back to whatever activity is happening at the moment?  Why does he feel a need to escape?

Maybe I'm asking the wrong questions.  Maybe he is running TO something.  To what could he be running?  My wife answered this one.  Home.  His toys.  His Brainy Baby videos.  His crib.  The place where he feels most safe and in control.

And yet...

Our son discovered our lanai (what Floridians call a screened-in patio).  He rides his little truck to the sliding glass door and needs to be helped over the door's track.  As soon as he is outside, he turns around and wants to be helped over the metal track to come in.  As soon as he is inside, much to my frustration, he turns around to go back out.

Maybe he is not coming or going.  Maybe he is not running away from or running toward something. Maybe he is fascinated by the concept of the door itself?

It just doesn't make sense.

In reality, this means that we often have to leave as soon as our daughter gets excited and engaged in play.  It means that I have to have my son firmly in my grip or I lose him around the corner or through a door.  It means that the one time I got special permission for my son to ride his little truck at the Children's Museum, he turned around in the middle of the displays and zipped toward the glass exit doors.  (I had to run full-speed after him and almost didn't catch him in time.)  It means that when he gets older and goes to elementary school, he will be the child who is announced over the intercom, "We have an eloper.  Blond hair, blue eyes, yellow shirt, Kindergarten wing.  All extra staff please check the hallways and bathrooms."  And hopefully later, "Eloper found. Thank you."

Yes, this is our son.  A runner.  An eloper.  An escape artist.  Coming, going, we don't know.  He enjoys the tightness of being restrained in his carseat.  It helps him feel safe.  He enjoys tight hugs; they calm him down.  Yet he keeps trying to enter the big, noisy world by himself, where the freedom and the sound is overwhelming, through doors that both open and close.  We have to stay on our toes, and watch him closely.  We don't want to lose him beyond the threshold.