The Disappearing Act
I was surprised at how far this toddler got.
Liam — my 3-year-old — ran off on me the other day.
When I say ‘the other day’… I mean he has run off on me approximately every single day for the past two years since we first started living on the road.
(I’m sure he’s the first toddler to complete a lap of Aussie on foot.)
I couldn’t possibly write about every single escapade. Only the exciting ones.
And when I say ‘ran off on me’… I don’t mean he ran down to hide in the backyard somewhere.
Because we don’t have a backyard.
The caravan park we’re living in now is right on the beach, nestled against the sand dunes. It’s a long beach, stretching from the southern headland — where we are — and tens of kilometres north.
There’s a surf club a little further along the beach from us. Next to the surf club, overlooking the beach, is a playground.
It’s a brilliant playground. It has one of those big pyramid-shaped rope climbs — from the top you get a 360 degree view of the ocean, coastline and the hinterland to the west. (Of course I’ve climbed it!)
On surf comp days I sit on a rock under the palm trees and watch the surfers while the kids play.
There’s plenty of shade here.
The biggest tree in the park is a Moreton bay fig. It’s mighty and ancient. One of its huge branches sweeps almost to the ground and is a favourite swing for kids.
When I was a kid we used to call these ‘dinosaur trees’ because their long branches reminded us of the neck of a brachiosaurus.
Anyway.
So it’s the afternoon. We’re in the caravan.
Liam’s playing outside on the mat while I wash the dishes inside.
Part of my brain is always on alert when he’s outside. But I’ve been able to relax lately as he’s almost four and seems to be growing out of the running away phase.
Mum can I go to the playground?
Not yet buddy, just wait til I finish washing the dishes.
Okayyy.
I drain the sink, wipe the bench and step outside.
No Liam.
I’m annoyed. He must have wandered across to our neighbour.
No Liam.
I check his bike — yes still there on the mat. He must have gone up to our other friends.
No Liam.
Damn.
I break into a trot, scanning the top row of caravans along the beachfront.
No Liam.
I glance out at the beach. Surely….
I jog along the soft sand down our regular access way to the beach. I scan to my right, towards the southern end near the surf club.
No Liam.
I turn left and gaze along the vast stretch north.
No Liam.
I feel a rising — and familiar — tide of panic.
Damn.
My gut spurs me onwards. I think I know where he is.
I turn and run half a kilometre along the sand to the bottom of the steps that lead to the playground, scanning for his curly head the whole time. I pause at the bottom and glance up. Only a couple of people watching the waves.
I bound up the stairs two at a time and reach the playground.
He’s not up the climbing frame.
He’s not on the swing.
He’s not on the slide.
DAMN.
Maybe I got it wrong.
I run along the path that leads around the playground. I’m frantically scanning left and right. There must be a crazed look in my eye because I get a few double takes from passers by.
I’m close to yelling out loud to all the strangers, have you seen my little boy?!!!
I keep running.
I’m at the foot of the massive fig tree when I catch a glimpse of something up in the branches.
I stop and look up. My heart skips several beats.
Perched high on a branch — holding on with one hand and grinning like a bonobo — is Liam.
I’m flooded with relief.
And then rage.
And then… Pride.
I’m so in awe of this crazy 3 year old — who has just trekked over half a kilometre by himself to climb his favourite tree — that I just can’t be furious.
I try to hide my smile as I tell him off.
Then I realise he can’t climb down. So up I go, into the branches to guide him down foot by foot.
Back on land I sweep him up into my arms and squeeze his muscly little body.
I can’t help but wonder about the dozens of people who might have seen this shaggy-haired, carefree kid sprinting past on a lone mission.
I guess he was so confident and happy that he slipped under the radar. If he’d been upset or scared — like a normal child with a functioning limbic system would be — he probably would have attracted attention.
I still wonder how long he would have played up in the tree before he realised that a) he was alone and b) he was trapped.
As we walk back along the beach together I drill into him, stay on the mat, wait for me, stay at the van.
They’re wasted words but it’s more for my conscience. And I can’t help but smile to myself.
Because I know that feeling.
That irresistible compulsion to explore, to adventure, to be IN the world.
That’s why I run.
That’s why I travel.
That’s why I write about it all.
I’ve got the perfect wingman. He’s my spirit animal.
And apparently now he’s tired.
I hoist all 22kg of him onto my back and carry him home for afternoon tea.
