It’s been a cornucopia of emotions here today. [I won't do another bulleted rant-a-thon cuz y'all deserve something better than that. I recommend you seek that somewhere else, cuz we all know that's not what I'm servin' up - something better! Ha.]
It took Isobel 23 months and 10 days to ever become attached to something. Besides me, I mean. Anyways. This stuffed dog. A Beagle. Named “Doggie-dog,” by Isobel. It went every single place she did for the last four days. On the potty, to the store, to bed, to the laundry room, in the flowerbeds downstairs, in the sink to obsessively wash hands. I had to kiss it good night, too. If it fell down, she hugged it and kissed it and asked it if it was ‘otay.’
And this morning, I accidentally let her lose it. It was only out of her hands for about eight minutes. We, a mommy friend and I, know exactly where it was lost. We remembered it less than two blocks away, with a direct view of where it’d been. And then we turned around to go back and saw a brigade of really nice (but not especially great) nannies that hang out together in the hood – a stroller brigade.
And Doggie-dog was gone. And then we stopped talking about it, so that maybe she wouldn’t catch on.
Within about an hour, it was clear that I was going to have to go and buy another one, so skipping her naptime, we jetted downtown to check three different stores. And ended up getting an imposter.
I mean, Doggy-dog? He’s this super cute beagle. We came home from the store with an equally cute, but not as charismatic and kind of gassy Dalmation, who has been named, “Poopy.” (Forgive the bad pronounciation on that one.) [Check out the pics]
You all read OHmommy, right? Then I’ll spare you the explanation of Holding Breath Syndrome and give the abbreviated version of what happens when Isobel won’t go in a stroller on the bus, is overtired and not listening about jumping up and down on the seat.
She bails and she hits her head. She does the silent cry, holding her breath until she turns a nice shade of blueish purple and then people around us start to FTFO. I say breathe a few times while blowing in her face and she lets out what I’ve come to call the war cry – a garbled, loud, long, deep wail. And then passes out.
And then it’s our turn to get off the bus.
Then I get home and talk on Plurk about the crappy new Poopy that’s come to our home and two hours pass and I have to rock her to sleep cuz of the tiredness and lack of Doggy-dog. And then, this Angel comes along with a cache of children’s smut at really great prices (but alas, I have no credit card to partake in a shopping spree) and has one of Doggy-dog and offers to send me one. For free. Cuz she gets it and stuff.
And oh, I’m just filled with wonder at the hearts of some people. Both those who would let their charge take a two-year old’s Doggy-dog, and those who would replace it.
