Oakley Alert

A normal Saturday morning. Oakley is three, Thistle is six, Jonah eight and Finn ten. The family is all hanging around the house doing a whole lot of nothing. It is very peaceful. Too peaceful.I wander through the house “Oakley?” I call. No response. I go into the backyard where Twain is working. “Have you seen Oakley?” I ask. “Nope.” He sighs heavily and immediately stops what he is doing to join me in a preliminary search of the house. We look under beds, in the bathroom, in closets and in the yard. No Oakley. “Oakley Alert!” I call. The kids groan, but don’t hesitate. Everyone begins looking.

The thing with Oakley is that he hides. Calling his name doesn’t do it. You have to find him. Oakley disappearing has happened so frequently that we have taken drastic measures. Our doors all have hook-and-eye locks about 6 feet high, out of his reach, that we are committed to locking whenever we are home. The doors also have springs on them that snap them shut when you open them in case you forget to close them securely. Our backyard is enclosed by a 3-foot chain link fence with a sprin-loaded gate. When this didn’t prove enough to hold him in, we added a two-foot extension of bird netting that seems unclimbable above the fence. In the past he has managed to scale the outdoor shower that is attached to the house, cross over the roof and jump into the front yard in an effort to attain freedom.

The house is empty, the search needs to expand. Thistle stays at home stationed by the telephone in case he reappears. Finn strikes out on his bike, to tour the neighborhood. Jonah grabs one Razor scooter and I grab the other. Twain sets out on foot. The neighborhood fills with the sound of our calling. “Oakley! Oakley!” Some neighbors hear us and venture out. “You lost him again?” Asks one gentleman with a kind smile. He shakes his head and begins searching his yard. Another neighbor calls out “He is not in here!” Our search continues. We fan out over several blocks; no Oakley. It has now been 25 minutes and I am beginning to move past numbness into slight worry. I pass Twain on my scooter. “Maybe we should call the police?” “Yeah maybe, let’s give it a few more minutes.”

Calling the police is scary. I have contacted them in the past to try to give them a heads up about our little runaway. I told them all the precautions we have taken and asked them to just be aware that if they ever come upon a toe-headed three-year-old wandering alone in a place where one wouldn’t normally find one to give us a call. The response was harsh. Yes, they would keep an eye out, and if they found him they would call Child Protective Services.

Just then, Twain’s cell phone rings. It is six-year-old Thistle. “He is at Krispy Kreme.” She proudly reports. “They just called.” Wow. Krispy Kreme is three blocks away and along the busy Savannah Highway, a 4-lane commercial strip that is the main artery leading to and from Charleston, South Carolina. He must have cut through backyards and hedges the whole way or we would have seen him. I tear off on my scooter.

When I arrive, Oakley is sitting in a chair happily eating a donut and drinking from a carton of milk. He is wearing both a medical ID bracelet that we had purchased for him, with his name and phone number on it. (Think Paddington Bear “If lost” tag.) And a bright blue harness equipped with a beeper that goes off if a remote is pushed. It only has a 150-foot range, so it didn’t work very well. The manager of Krispy Kreme is incredulous. He feels like a hero. He is. I thank him sincerely for his rescue although I can’t help wishing he hadn’t fed Oakley. I am sure that Oakley will continue to frequent this place. I throw Oakley on the front of my scooter and ride home. He is terribly pleased with himself.

The family has all regathered at home and are waiting to hear about Oakley’s adventure. I tell them about his tasty little snack and they all can’t help but praise him. “Oakley got a donut!” They all shout with glee. They pat him on the back, ask if it was yummy and wish they could pull off such a stunt. We all live a bit vicariously through him. Then it is over. Wordlessly we all return to whatever it was that we were working on. This wasn’t rehearsed. We all know the drill. Saturday continues.

Sometimes when my husband and I crawl into bed at night we laugh and take turns recounting Oakley stories. We wince slightly at some of the gory details, but overall we feel lucky to have a child as entertaining as our son. Those are the good nights.