EVERY few years, my husband or I take just two of the boys away for a short break.

It’s a chance to do a bit of parent-son bonding, and to go to the sort of places – like big cities – that are impossible with all five of them.

This time it was my turn to take Roscoe, 11, and Patrick, 14, and we were lucky enough to get a great deal on flights to San Francisco.

“Aren’t you scared of being on your own with the boys in a huge city you’ve never been to so far away? I’d be terrified,” said a friend from the village. But I laughed off her fears.

“We’ll be fine,” I said. “The boys are so used to a quiet, rural life that they’re really excited about going somewhere big, loud and frantic. As long as we’re sensible and have a map and a guidebook, what can go wrong?”

From the moment we landed on the Saturday night, the 11-year-old was bug-eyed and drop-jawed, blown away by everything from the towering skyscrapers to the constant street sirens. I suspect the 14-yearold was just as excited but, being 14, he was trying to play it cool.

So while Roscoe went “Wow” and pointed a lot, Patrick, in his hoodie, swaggered along the pavement a few yards ahead, doing his best to look like a downtown, street-wise city boy who had seen it all before and, more importantly, wasn’t with us.

The last person he wanted to be seen with on the streets of San Francisco was his ancient, uncool mother.

The first place we went to was the Museum of Modern Art. Still suffering from jetlag and slightly disorientated since we had been up, wide awake from 5am (when it was 1pm at home), I was just trying to make sense of the museum map, when Patrick announced he was off.

“I don’t want to look at the same things as you, I’ll walk round on my own. Don’t worry, I’ll come back and find you,” he said, sauntering off, as though he knew exactly where he was going. Roscoe ran after him: “I’m going with Patrick.”

And they were gone. “Well stick together the two of you,” I shouted after them. It was about 15 minutes before I discovered that this wasn’t just any museum of modern art. It was the biggest museum of modern art in the whole of the United States.

There were five huge floors, each with four or five separate galleries, as well as a large roof garden and sculpture park, with a wide spiral staircase running up the centre of the building and a series of lifts on either side.

I wandered around the first floor galleries for a while, thinking they’d soon come back and find me. But I couldn’t concentrate on any of the art, as I was starting to panic about ever seeing them again. After three quarters of an hour, I realised I could spend all day walking up and down from floor to floor and in and out of the various galleries without crossing their paths.

I had tried to call Patrick but his mobile phone wouldn’t work. And then I had this awful thought. What if they decided to go back to the hotel on their own? They had some dollars, so they might jump in a taxi. But the hotel we were staying in was one of a chain and there were three, maybe four more at different locations in the city. Would they remember the correct address?

Given Patrick’s laid-back, confident mood, they might try to retrace our steps and walk. But if they were feeling as jetlagged and disorientated as I was, they could easily get lost.

As in any city, there were areas where it wasn’t safe to venture.

What was I thinking, letting them go off? “Aren’t you scared?” My friend’s words came back to haunt me. And then I got a text from my husband. “What are you up to?” it said.

“We’re in the Museum of Modern Art and everything’s fine,” I replied.

I wasn’t about to tell him I’d lost the two of them in a city of 810,000 people on our first day.

So I went to a receptionist, who called the head of security. “I’ve lost two children,” I told the big burly man in a black uniform. He barked detailed descriptions into his walkietalkie.

Two more security guards appeared.

They all barked into their walkie-talkies.

“We’re searching for a 14-year-old youth. Caucasian, five feet seven, with dark hair, wearing a blue hooded sweater and jeans. Answers to the name of Patrick... “ It sounded as if the boys were on the FBI’s most wanted list. Every security guard on every wing of every floor was receiving the same message.

Within five minutes, they’d nabbed them. “Escort them down to the main reception,” said the boss.

Moments later, the boys appeared, looking sheepish and flanked by security guards.

Funnily enough, they stuck by my side for the rest of our stay.

WHILE we were away, I was talking to seven-year-old Albert on the phone, telling him what we had been up. “What are you doing now?” I asked him. There was a pause: “I’m talking to you,” he said.