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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Monday, April 25, 2005
The bar is OPEN!
We just put out our hummingbird feeder this weekend, and lookee: already a satisfied customer! During peak hummer season, we've had up to a dozen little green meanies jockeying for position at the feeder.
Speaking of free-for-the-taking sweets, Cold Stone Creamery is giving out slices of Make-A-Wish Cake today from 5:00 PM to 8:00 PM to encourage donations to the Make-A-Wish Foundation. Need I say more?
# posted by Amanda at 12:02 PM |
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Friday, April 22, 2005
Just in case the cold grey drizzle wasn't enough of an indication of what kind of day to expect, this morning the new temp greeted me with, "I'm wearing black because I'm in a black mood." Delightful. She wore surgical scrubs* yesterday, signifying what? A scrubby mood?
* The assignment to a healthcare research company might have been a wee bit confusing to the temp. She was clearly disappointed by the thrill-a-minute environment that is the survey research.
So there's this church near work that has a habit of posting funny lines on their billboard. I have a feeling that this is unintentially so. This week's sign reads, "The perfect man or woman." Both, in one convenient package! For all of your complex sexual identity needs! Remind me to watch for the next post-worthy sign to contribute to the collection of actual church signs. [via Halsted]
# posted by Amanda at 11:07 AM |
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Wednesday, April 20, 2005
In about a year's time, the woman operating the drive-thru window of the local Wendy's has progressed from mumbling "Try chick combo?" to a more confident "Would you like try chicken combo?" Her spoken English - at least as it relates to upselling chicken meals - has really improved. I'm proud of her! Alas, after I drove off with my lunch order today, I discovered that she still has some work to do in distinguishing requests for Mediterranean Chicken Salad from Mandarin Chicken Salad.
# posted by Amanda at 11:36 AM |
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Thursday, April 14, 2005
We had a few extra minutes this morning before we needed to get on the road, so I grabbed the camera and snapped a few photos of Sophie playing amongst the blooms.
# posted by Amanda at 11:18 AM |
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Monday, April 11, 2005
Leave it to Chris to notice the new nickel dickel.
# posted by Amanda at 7:56 AM |
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Sunday, April 10, 2005
I keep making a tiny typing error when ending IM conversations with one particular friend. We usually sign off with "hugs!" (the non-society version of "kiss kiss, dahling"), but lately I've been accidently typing a very enthusiastic "jugs!" It's kinda cute, actually...maybe it will catch on! Imagine Christmas letters signed "jugs from Doris and Jim" and garden club meetings ending with, "Jugs, ladies - and don't forget to sign up for our annual bake sale!" Secret shimmies will replace the secret handshake, and oh, it will be lovely.
So anyhoo, we visited some friends and their baby girl last weekend. She's three months old now, absolutely adorable and probably average-sized for her age, but next to Sophie she seemed so tiny. A pocket baby! It's hard for me to remember Sophie ever being that small: even though she only weighed 6 pounds 12 ounces fresh out of the oven, she pretty much inflated upon impact. We're bench pressing some significant toddler weight these days.
Lately people have been asking us when we'll get started on Baby #2, to which I say LET ME TELL YOU A LITTLE STORY:
Last Sunday, Sophie and I went out to dinner with one of my friends. This is a friend who has several children of her own who are perfectly content to terrorize their own table at restaurants. Sophie, on the other hand, likes to branch out to working over the people at other tables. During our meal, a very large man was seated at the table behind us. Sophie thoroughly looked him up and down and promptly fixated on his butt, which was so huge that it hung over either side of his chair. Now, this is nothing new to an adult, but to a two-year-old who is not all that worldly, this was the equivalent of HOLY COW THE CIRCUS IS IN TOWN AND I'M SEEING THE FREAKSHOW FOR FREE. Sophie stared at him and stage-whispered, "That man has a big bummy..."
"Sophie, eat your dinner."
"Mommy, that man over there has a big bummy!"
"Sophie! Eat your dinner."
Undaunted, she informed us and the rest of the hearing world: "His bummy is coming out the back of his chair!"
My friend was now choking on her dinner trying to keep from laughing. I hauled Sophie out of the highchair and we marched off to the restroom. I sternly explained to Sophie that talking about other people's bummies is RUDE and asked if she understood. Sophie nodded solemnly. Hoping that some time away from the table would help Sophie get over the fascination with the guy's butt, we spent a few more minutes hanging out and talking about a zillion other topics before heading back to our table.
As I was putting Sophie back into the highchair, she leaned towards The Man With The Butt and shouted, "I said, YOU HAVE A VERY BIG BUMMY!"
Some parents choose to delay adding to their family until the current child learns how to use the potty. Us? We're going to wait until Sophie has learned some tact.
And now I'm off to bed. Jugs, dahlings!
# posted by Amanda at 9:51 PM |
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