Every time teeny baby Sophia would snatch at my credit card, a cashier or the person behind us in line would quip knowingly, "Oh-oh, she's already going for the money! She's a real little girl!" or whatever. Drove me nuts. So too with the heretofore only overheard playground conversation that goes: "How old is he?" "Just turned two!" "Oh no, Terrible Twos!" Insert rueful laugh. Yes, stranger in the store, tell me about the world! Perhaps you also feel that my child needs a hat/not to be wearing a hat/shoes with hard soles/no shoes at all. Either way, color me interested.
I refuse to lend any credence to the "Women Be Shopping, Even Before They Can Walk" school of thought, but at some point over the past two weeks, Sophia has begun to respond to any unwelcome suggestions with a guttural shriek, which quickly devolves into outright tantrum. While I enjoy her newfound and developmentally appropriate bossy streak ("Mama! You don't sit on the bed! It's daaaaangerous to sit on the bed! Pico! Don't stand on the sink! It's daaaangerous to stand on the sink!"), I could do without the tendency to respond to well-meaning offers of the potty or a drink of juice with "NNnnnnnaaaaaaaaauuuughhhh!" and a facial expression that suggests the introduction of fire ants to the greater Philadelphia region beginning with her tiny cargo pants.
So. This is all normal, yes, and there is an upside, which is that Sophia can now hold her own in a mixed-age group of children, and happily greets everyone in the building, and does all sort of charming almost-two-year-old things. But I am considering contracting a special run of tiny little wine-in-a-box thingies for stroller trips, late afternoons, first thing in the morning...kid gets an Apple&Eve with Elmo on it, and I get an affordably priced workhorse cabernet in a convenient single serving. With a bendy straw.
And if sometimes the boxes should get switched, who's to know? Ha. I jest. But I imagine everybody else on the big old jet airliner (tomorrow! crack of dawn! nonstop to California!) will wish I meant it. Sorry, fellow passengers. And sorry, readers, too, since now marks another several-day break in the action (which is such that you might not have even realized I was taking a vacation, had I not mentioned it). Yes, we're off to San Diego*, and while on principle I have made up my mind to hate California** (oops, I almost typed Coliformia! Ha ha! No, really!) I have looked at the weather forecast, which is something like Hi 75/Lo 68 as far as the forecast will go, and in that regard it is certainly kicking Philadelphia's ass. Our forecast is Hi 98,352,785/Lo Does It Even Matter? It's Still Muggy as Fuck, So Don't Even Bother With the Towel After Your Shower with a 20% chance of stepping in feces on the sidewalk. Dog feces IF YOU'RE LUCKY.
*Aside to DebbieS: I greatly appreciate your kind offer of the pass! We are, however, traveling on someone else's nickel, so it's basically all expenses paid. Niiiice.
**Because Sean's career keeps trying to run away to California, and we are fighting like heck to keep it on the East Coast. And if I were to actually like California, which I have never visited, well, all would be lost, probably.