Tamson Weston Books

This book gets a bad rap. Folks tend to think Mama Bunny is creepy for changing form repeatedly in order to pursue her escaped child. She’s a stalker. But, really, what are we mothers, but stalkers? We’re supposed to hover, right, like helicopters?

Seriously, though, I understand being creeped out about the stalker thing in some other context (check out the original folk song, “The Two Magicians,” for example), but here, in the two bunny scenario, it’s playful–a flight of fancy,  not a treatise on how to raise a child. Like the song that inspired it, The Runaway Bunny shows us contest of one-upmanship. But because it’s a mother and child, all the danger is taken away, or at least the most menacing part of it. Kids will still want to run, but mostly because they like to be chased. They dissolve into those delightful peals of laughter, right? It’s fun to have a book that reflects this dynamic. The tit-for-tat nature of the text also challenges the imagination and exercises problem-solving skills. If Mom decides to become a fisherman, then what can I become to evade her? This can extend well beyond what’s between those two covers. Heck, it could go on all night, if you let it! Not only that, but if we assume that the child is angry with his mother (he’s a runaway, after all) it’s a sweet and fun way to diffuse that anger.

Best of all, this book carries on a tradition. It keeps a story in the public consciousness. As I mentioned The Runaway Bunny is modeled on an old song (which seems to be based on Hepheastus and Aphrodite), in which a Blacksmith is courting a lady who wants none of it. The first time I heard “The Two Magicians” was when we had contra dancing lessons at school (those were the days). I recognized its creepiness instantly, and I loved it–even as a child. Some of the best old folk songs are creepy, after all. It wasn’t until years later as a babysitter or perhaps as a bookseller that I encountered The Runaway Bunny and it was instantly familiar, in the best way. Using a familiar premise or form always creates a feeling of resonance and attachment. And what seemed particularly brilliant about the use of this conceit in a kids’ book was that the darkness  all but disappeared in the giddiness of the mother and child dynamic. Say what you want about Mama Bunny, if my boy becomes a worm and hides in the ground, I’m gonna rain down on the earth and wash him back up again. Count on it. At least until he’s eighteen.