Runaway Spawn
Abbie used to do so well when we went garage saling. When she still fit in her detachable car seat that doubled as an infant carrier, oftentimes she would sleep while I rummaged, or I would swing her with one hand while hunting with the other. The back and forth motion usually kept her entertained much better than anything Baby Einstein has ever made. When she outgrew the carrier at about six months and I actually had to unbuckle her to take her from the car seat to remove her from the car, I simply carried her with one hand while exploring with the other. Holding her was enough to keep her happy, and even if she was unhappy she was too weak to effectively struggle. When she could stand, I would hold her up with one hand and balancing herself would provide all the excitement she would need.
Now that she can walk fairly well, garage saling with her is becoming difficult. She’s old enough to realize that garage sales are lame, and mobile enough to go someplace more exciting, like an oily patch in someone’s garage, or the street. This is a problem since the garage sale season is quickly waning, and I still need carloads full of boy clothes for her future siblings. We have some unisex items left over from Abbie’s attire, but if I don’t fill the closets with two boy’s wardrobes, I’m going to have to go back over Abbie’s old clothes wondering if those flowers would look masculine enough for a boy to wear when paired with some dinosaur pants.*
We were at a garage sale yesterday with a few decent pieces at acceptable prices. I tried checked a couple of sizes while holding her, but she almost squirmed out of my arm. I set her down to let her wander, and she promptly wandered down the driveway toward the street. I picked her back up, tried holding and looking, and she started screaming. I set her down again to let her wander, this time making sure to point her back toward the driveway, and she immediately turned around to run down the driveway. I gathered her back up, and when the hold and look tactic elicited anguished screams again, I set her down while holding her hand. This approach worked in the sense that she couldn’t wander into danger or fall five feet onto concrete, but it also made her scream hysterically.
I could feel the owner pierce me with a “bad daddy” stare for making her making her stay against her will, and probably hurting her to do it. I tried proclaiming, “you’re fine” in a reassuring tone, though the reassurance was more for the observers than for Abbie. I decided the struggle wasn’t worth it, and left potentially mind-blowing deals on the table without buying anything.
Later garage sales went more smoothly, especially the ones with large stocks of toys splayed across the ground. When Abbie complained in my grasp, I let her go and watched her move to the toys like Lawrence Phillips driving toward a gang of teens. I would check a piece of clothing, watch her, check, watch, check, knock something out of her mouth, and continue the cycle until I moved through the piles of discount clothing. I proprietors might have thought I was a neglectful parent and rude for letting her play with their merchandise, but I made up for it by buying several articles of clothing. I was especially interested in anything masculine enough to counterbalance shirts that say “princess.”
* “Those aren’t flowers, they’re roughage.”
Now that she can walk fairly well, garage saling with her is becoming difficult. She’s old enough to realize that garage sales are lame, and mobile enough to go someplace more exciting, like an oily patch in someone’s garage, or the street. This is a problem since the garage sale season is quickly waning, and I still need carloads full of boy clothes for her future siblings. We have some unisex items left over from Abbie’s attire, but if I don’t fill the closets with two boy’s wardrobes, I’m going to have to go back over Abbie’s old clothes wondering if those flowers would look masculine enough for a boy to wear when paired with some dinosaur pants.*
We were at a garage sale yesterday with a few decent pieces at acceptable prices. I tried checked a couple of sizes while holding her, but she almost squirmed out of my arm. I set her down to let her wander, and she promptly wandered down the driveway toward the street. I picked her back up, tried holding and looking, and she started screaming. I set her down again to let her wander, this time making sure to point her back toward the driveway, and she immediately turned around to run down the driveway. I gathered her back up, and when the hold and look tactic elicited anguished screams again, I set her down while holding her hand. This approach worked in the sense that she couldn’t wander into danger or fall five feet onto concrete, but it also made her scream hysterically.
I could feel the owner pierce me with a “bad daddy” stare for making her making her stay against her will, and probably hurting her to do it. I tried proclaiming, “you’re fine” in a reassuring tone, though the reassurance was more for the observers than for Abbie. I decided the struggle wasn’t worth it, and left potentially mind-blowing deals on the table without buying anything.
Later garage sales went more smoothly, especially the ones with large stocks of toys splayed across the ground. When Abbie complained in my grasp, I let her go and watched her move to the toys like Lawrence Phillips driving toward a gang of teens. I would check a piece of clothing, watch her, check, watch, check, knock something out of her mouth, and continue the cycle until I moved through the piles of discount clothing. I proprietors might have thought I was a neglectful parent and rude for letting her play with their merchandise, but I made up for it by buying several articles of clothing. I was especially interested in anything masculine enough to counterbalance shirts that say “princess.”
* “Those aren’t flowers, they’re roughage.”
posted by Matt at
9:51 PM
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