Two nights ago, Abby awakend with a scream. And when I say scream I mean hit the highest note in your head and then amp it up one more level. Add some bloodcurdling and more tenor and there you have it. She doesn't mess around with a few warm-up wails. Girl gets down to business.
I zombie-walked into her room, grabbed her outstretched arms, cuddled her and went downstairs to make a bah-pooh (bottle if you don't speak baby or don't ever want to). A nice bottle of milk should heal all 17 month old ails. (Nevermind that I should be weaning her. It's my only trump card with this child. I'll drag my feet on this one for a while.)
"Ah, crap, Abby, I spilled it."
"Bah-poooh" she says like I just stabbed her puppy.
"It's okay, Mommy fix it, Mommy fix it."
"Bahhhh-poooooh, Uh oh, bah-poooh." (stabbed and neutered evidently.)
"Shit, I spilled the whole thing mama, you're gonna have to get down."
"Sheet. Sheet. Sheet. Bah-poooh sheet!"
"Shhhh, you'll wake up Nammy, Abby, hush now, hush." I whisper through my own giggles of delirium.
"Sheet Bah-pooh, Sheeet Bah-pooh. Uh oh, sheet bah-pooh."
So now I tell people we get her milk for her bottles at Sheetz. Do they even have a Sheetz in the metro DC area?
No comments:
Post a Comment