Let’s clarify: we didn’t actually lose him for days or even hours. It was more like 40 minutes, give or take, but time has a funny way of stretching when you’re trudging through riverbeds, clambering over logs, and muttering a steady stream of expletives. It was me, my wife, our spirited and adventurous 11-year-old, and his less coordinated but equally charming 3-year-old brother. If you’ve ever taken a hike, walked along a beach, or even just strolled through your living room, you know how tricky it can be to keep kids of different ages together.
We reached a steep spot that required some climbing, and off went our 11-year-old like a little mountain goat, leaving the two of us with our wobbly toddler behind. Apparently, there was a slight mix-up: When we said, “Wait for us at the top,” he interpreted it as, “Go off and explore the wilderness alone and don’t forget to take the bag with the water bottles.”
This wasn’t his first rodeo. He often gets lost, come to think of it. He’s a bit of a wanderer—his imagination is like a thunderstorm, swirling with characters and stories that have little to do with whatever room he’s physically in.
Me: “Hey, how about some Lucky Charms?”
11-Year-Old: [five-second pause] “Which Wings of Fire dragon has the best armor, the MudWing or the IceWing?”
Me: [five-second pause] “So, Frosted Flakes it is then?”
I’ve had to track him down at Target when he wandered off to check out a T-shirt or at a ballpark because the scent of hot dogs led him astray. We used to ride bikes on the beach, and he’d zoom ahead until he was just a tiny dot against the sunset; we’d even wager on when he’d realize he was way ahead of us. One night, when he was about four, he woke up, snuck out of his room, descended the stairs, opened the back door, and wandered into the Carolina night for about 20 minutes before the cops found him. He’s a little adventurer, but now that I’m writing this, I’m starting to wonder—is this normal? When the friendly staff at the children’s museum bring my toddler back, it’s more of a “Thanks, Edna, how’s that sciatica?” than a “Thank you for returning my precious child!”
But let me assure you, once he went missing, my son kept his cool. Kind of? He made his way to the park’s bridge entrance and ranger station, asking for directions from families he deemed trustworthy because they had a 6-year-old with them. And yes, I may have made up the part about him hanging his food up to keep it safe from bears.
Despite his attention issues, I was reasonably sure he could find his way back to the bridge entrance—unless he’d fallen into a ravine or been abducted by a bear, which seemed unlikely since he’s as skinny as a candy bar. Kids have this funny way of navigating the world. I’m convinced that if we dropped him in the middle of the Atlanta airport, he could find his way back to our home in Indiana, probably with a Cinnabon in hand. But ask him to come downstairs with his Little League uniform on right? You might have a 50-50 shot at backward baseball pants. Hand him a map of the New York City subway, and he’ll figure it out while I’m still trying to find the right directions on my phone.
I cherish that independence. I lean into it because it’s not something I experienced growing up. My parents often painted the world as a dangerous place filled with countless ways to get hurt—tornado warnings, crossing busy streets, or even eating bananas (long story). So, in a way, I overcompensate. Not to the extreme of saying, “Feel free to wander a mile ahead on this twisting trail,” but somewhere in the middle. If I had gotten lost in a state park at 11, I would have frozen in place until someone rescued me—whether it was rangers, Yogi Bear, or whoever.
I asked him how he knew which way to go. “I memorized the map,” he replied matter-of-factly while I struggled to find a signal on my phone to pull up a map in the depths of the Indiana woods.
That’s the thing about parenting: it’s a lesson I’m still trying to learn. “Relax,” the state park map seemed to whisper as I anxiously scanned the trails for any sign of him. “Take it easy,” the trees and the wind sighed (though they don’t actually talk—I was probably imagining it). “Hey, watch where you’re going!” said the family I splashed with mud while trying to cross a river—sorry about that, folks.
He was fine. He wasn’t lost for long. “Can you stay close?” he asked my wife when she found him first. “I think Dad’s going to lose it.” But I didn’t. I gave him a Serious Talk, took away his Minecraft privileges for a while, shared a little joke about the whole thing, and we moved on with life. I felt somewhat reassured about how he would fare when we’re not around to keep up with him.
If you’re looking for more insights into navigating parenthood and the wild world of home insemination, check out this post or visit Make a Mom for expert advice. And if you want a solid resource on pregnancy and home insemination, Cleveland Clinic has you covered.