I was probably about 9 or so when I ran away. We kids had been playing outside when my mom called us in for the night. First things first, I asked to turn on the TV because there was a new episode of "Full House" on that night. My evil, rotten mother said no. (And she wonders why I gave her the nickname Maleficent....)
So I ran.
I ran down the street and hid behind a trash can for probably about 17 minutes, which I figured was long enough for my mom to learn her lesson. Once I was convinced that she was panicked enough, I made my way home. Obviously she would be so relieved that I came home that she would let me watch. It was basically a prodigal son sort of situation and in my mind "Full House" was totally equal to slaughtering a fatted calf.
I didn't get to watch. I doubt I got dinner.
Seems like I've always had a thing for Uncle Jesse.
My mom is not evil or rotten, nor is the nickname, Maleficent, anything more than ironic because she is amazing. She has "adopted" too many of our friends to count because that's what she does. She's a mom. The best mom.