Yesterday, as I was trying to get out the door to go to work, Robbie discovered my “gogurt” on the counter. Thrilled at the find, and sure that it was for him, he ran around the house with his trophy. Eventually, I convinced him that the yogurt was mine and asked him to please put it in my purse. Then, in a novice move, I turned my back to get the rest of my things together.
When it was time to leave a few minutes later, I asked Robbie where my yogurt was because, in a shocking turn of events, it was not in my purse. He looked at me and said, “I don’t know.” Which then prompted a very ridiculous conversation, particularly because Robbie is two years old. It went a little something like this:
“What do you mean you don’t know? You’re the one who put it somewhere. You just had the yogurt two minutes ago.”
“No, I’m not talking about ping – I mean, apples. I’m talking about yogurt. Mama’s yogurt. Mama’s breakfast. Where is it?”
“I don’t know. Ping guo.”
“No! Yogurt. Where is the yogurt?”
“Purse. Ping guo.”
I could have gone on but decided to cut my culinary losses and head for work without the yogurt to accompany my cereal (it’s better than milk, by the way; much more filling). And then Robbie flipped out. Par for the course, I know. He started screaming about purses and gogurt and ping guos. Being patient, I tried to rationally explain, “We don’t have the yogurt. You didn’t put it in my purse and we can’t find it. We have to go.” I even went so far as to give him a small black purse, which looked fabulous with his Smurf shirt.
And then Robbie made a mad dash for the bathroom and stopped by the door to the linen closet. Where another purse hung. With my yogurt nestled snuggly in one of the pockets.