Friday, April 29, 2005
Last weekend we stopped by Target, which is quite possibly Sophie's least favorite place in the entire world. A visit to Target means at least an hour of being bored and strapped into a cart while Mommy and Daddy immerse themselves in the rapture that is suburban shopping. (Unofficial motto of rural Southern Maryland, home exclusively to stores with names ending in Mart: "Here, expectations fall faster than WalMart's every day low prices.") We no sooner step inside a Target than Sophie's little kiddo brain cues up begin mischief sequence, wreak havoc, eat souls. EVERY TIME.
During our latest foray to Target, we made the mistake of letting Sophie walk rather than ride in the cart. It was a feeble attempt to avoid one of Sophie's epic tantrums, which reach ungodly pitches and volumes. People, YOU DO NOT KNOW THE FURY. It sucks the paint off houses and summons the beasts of Hell. With Sean and Sophie trailing behind, I veered off into the yoga pants section and got totally sucked into a hot deliberation over elastic waistband versus drawstring. As they made their way towards me, Sean leaned over to pick up some clothes that had fallen off a rack. When he stood up, Sophie was nowhere to be seen. *poof* GONE. Sean nervously asked if by any chance Sophie was with me.
My friends, that is a question to instantly stop a parent's heart. If you've heard the news recently, you know what a scary time we're living in. I stepped into the aisle and realized that we were maybe 50 feet from the exit. A short, straight line to the parking lot for anyone wanting to snatch a little girl on an idle Sunday afternoon.
That's when the panic REALLY set in.
While Sean raced around checking under clothing racks and yelling Sophie's name, I stood in the aisle staring at the exit and shaking. Sean looked over at me and snapped, "DO something!" I was just about to start screaming for the store to seal off the exits - because what emergency situation doesn't benefit from a desperate mother shrieking her head off? - when I heard a little voice gleefully calling, "Daaaaddy!" Sophie had finally voluntarily reemerged, highly amused that we hadn't found her hiding place. Whee, what fun it is to ignore Mommy and Daddy when they're all panicky like that! Look at them scurrying around! Ha ha! Havoc achieved!
Hours later, after Sophie had been hugged and belted into the cart and firmly reprimanded and lectured and hugged again, and after Sean and I had finally stopped shaking, we realized that WE SHOULD HAVE USED THE GOAT.
The Goat is a bit unorthodox, but genius.
A few weeks ago, Sophie informed us that she doesn't like our interpretations of the noises that goats make. Real goat noises are fine, and our vocal stylizations of other animal sounds are okay, but our "MMMAAA-A-A-A!" offends her little ears. Like any sane, loving parents, our response was to incorporate that little nugget of information into our disciplinary strategies*. Time-outs, withholding of toys or treats, cajoling and coaxing - all of these are a waste of time with Sophie The Hellbeast Summoner. But just utter the warning "Don't make me get The Goat..." and it's immediate compliance! We don't mind performing a little crazed bleating in public, either. Whatever it takes.
Last night after I needed to go as far as "MMM-!" in Bringing Out The Goat before Sophie decided to see things our way, Sean said, "You do realize that this is going into the book she writes about us, right?"
Yes, and no doubt that book will be titled Goaty Dearest.
* If you would like to try this approach, a.k.a. "Bleating for Good Behavior", here is a handy reference for goat noises. We recommend the Nubian goat in heat.
# posted by Amanda at 11:27 AM |
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