I'm surprised your head didn't spin around
How cute are you?
You're so cute that yesterday, in the video store, you screamed bloody murder when Mommy and Daddy made you put the "Cars" video game back on the shelf. We had to pry the object from your hand. And once your tiny fingers lost contact with it, your vocal chords took over with a bevy of "CAR! CAR! CAR!" High-pitched. Angry. Forceful. There are more words that I could use to describe that sound. Mostly you were in agony.
And I rushed you out of the store lickety-split.
We stood on the sidewalk and your cries changed to "IN! IN! IN!" You wanted to go back into the store and latch onto the case once again. Cars were driving by, windows down in the nice evening breeze, heads swiveling toward the source of that distressful screaming. You. It was you. Sweet, innocent little you.
Even after Daddy exited the video store and we went to the car, you were still screaming. The cry returned to its original form: "CAR! CAR! CAR!" You stiffened your little body as I tried to get you into the car seat. So we had to tag-team to pin you down and snap the straps.
Then you cried for another several minutes as we drove down the road. We achieved calm with the offer of a trip to the playground in Wilcox Park. Bribery.
But we weren't smart enough to savor the moment.
Instead, Mommy, dingaling that I am, offered you a piece of bread from the bakery, slathered with a bit of jam, and didn't demure when you took a much bigger piece than offered. Right before we had to get into the car. Where we don't eat food.
So you had this huge hunk of sourdough bread in your hand and you were casually nibbling on it while our pizza sat on the backseat getting cold. I encouraged you to eat it faster. I asked for a bite. (Haha!) I begged you to stop playing with it and eat the darn thing. To no avail.
So Daddy swiped the bread from your hand!
Oh, the wailing! Even though Daddy explained that we'd give it back when we got home. "BED! BED! BED! MY BED! MINE! MINE! BED! BED!" You screamed and kicked and yelled and quivered with the injustice of it. The car seemed so small with the sound of your anger wrapping us all in its force.
Until Daddy pointed out a truck.
Trucks, by the way, rock!
Not so keen on artichoke hearts
