Tank Twoo

Tonight we took the little angel to the grocery store after work.  This is hardly a new thing - after all, we are voracious eaters if nothing else.  Tonight, however, was the first night we let her walk around the store (under the guise of  "helping") so that she would get good and tired before bedtime.

First, she rode the free horsie outside the store, slapping the reins against its poor, lathered neck and waving her imaginary cowgirl hat in the wind.  Ride 'em.  Yeah.

Then we released her.  "Go get the bananas!" I said. 

"Namanas!" she cried, making a beeline for the produce section. I huffed and puffed to keep up with her.  She selected the worst bananas ever known to man.

"Bring them to Daddy," I instructed, feeling sort of like an idiot.  That's parenthood, though, isn't it?  Feeling dumb in public?

She hoisted them to her father.  "Tank twoo," she said, handing them over.  Then we went for the potatos.  "Tank twoo.  Tank twoo."  Of course it is impossible to hand over more than one potato at a time when you are eighteen months old.  I thought, good Lord, this is going to take an hour. 

And it did.

From the produce we progressed to bacon for Grandma, who is coming to stay with us this weekend while my beloved goes to train for his newly secured job next week.  Then snack foods.  Then chicken.  Then canned vegetables.  "Tank twoo.  Tank twooo."  She still thinks that she needs to say that whether she's supposed to thank you or vice versa.  She's schooling us in the fine art of manners, my girl.

When we got to the yogurt section, she probably peed her diaper.  Yogurt is her favorite food in the whole world.  She had never before noticed there was an ENTIRE WALL of yogurt in the grocery store.  She selected four varieties, carrying them one by one to her father, pushing aside flood victims and old ladies on her way.  "Tank twoo," she said to each of them as she stepped over their walkers. 

When we were done shopping, I thought she might cry.  I reminded her the eating part was next, knowing this would make her 75th percentile heart go thump, thump.  "You did very good, angel," I said, patting her red head.

"Tank twoo," she said.