“This is not my bed” said the defiant voice trying to negotiate sleeping in the big bed with mommy and daddy. This is not my house. This is not my car. These are not my toys. She says these things out of the blue, on the best and smoothest days. Or when she doesn’t want to come home from visiting a friend. Or from spending a couple of hours at her grandparents downstairs.
Conrad told me that this is normal. When he was a kid he presented to leave home like he read in Calvin and Hobbs or saw in a cartoon. He packed his favorite toy and a snack on a handkerchief, tied them to a stick and hid behind the neighbor’s tree. To which I say he had it too good! It never crossed my mind to leave home. I believe I was aware of the hardships of the outside world.
Today as she was playing nicely in the living room and I was changing the bedsheets and doing a load of laundry, she yells playfully that she is going back to Baisoara. Because she watched as many cartoons as she wants there. I replayed “Good bye! Let’s see how far you get!” – “But I don’t have a car!” – “That’s not my problem!” After that she called me to smooth things over and wanted to show me her pictures on a fake phone, told me secrets of her wonderful trip to Budapest, and kissed me and hugged me.
Other times, the matter of factly answer is “tough luck! we are stuck together! We are your parents and you are our daughter. And we love you no matter what you say or do.” She has not found a response to that. She actually seems to embrace it wholeheartedly.
