I’d like to preface this story with a short disclaimer. Yes, it’s another Schmemilie story. I do have 2 children, I really do. It’s just that Tilly is just so, well, complacent. To the point of ordinary and boring. She’s so sweet and cuddly, and whilst something of a drama queen, she’s really just a textbook toddler. She has no evil inclinations, and is happy with cuddles, food and toys. There would be no stories if I had 2 Tillys. I could bore you all to tears with how adorable she is when she Hi-5’s you, or how she chats constantly and it’s just so cute to hear – but most who read this blog would probably go to sleep. She is just a dream. Tilly loves to explore, and always stays where she can be seen, mainly because she loves to be seen and show you things.
On the other hand, she has a sister. One who could climb before she could walk, and then bypassed walking to running. Her favourite pasttimes include extreme windowsill standing, staircase climbing and the perennial favourite, bookcase scaling (no ropes). Schmemilie just is a daredevil beyond the extreme. She’s a hardcore nudist, and loves nothing better than to scale the stairs in under 30 seconds flat in her birthday suit.
It was around 7pm on a weeknight, and we were starting to get the small people organised for bed. I was in the kitchen preparing bottles and husband was watching the small people in their ‘free range’ time. (Please note, we don’t cage our children – although it is tempting at times. WE have a section of our living room fenced off with a baby fence to make a safe, secure play area for them so we can actually contain the mess, as well as function as adults from time to time. Just before bed, we let them roam the house freely and burn off excess energy) My attention was focussed on fixing bottles and medications, and husband was kissing a boo-boo for Tilly. (she has lots of boo boos. They’re all academy award worthy). Then, we noticed something … Schmemilie was missing.
Panic alarms didn’t go off at this stage. Husband walked upstairs and started checking the first and second floors, and I started looking under everything in the house. No Schmemilie. By now the panic was rising and I raced into the street (I’m such a genius, I left the front doors open so the perfect opportunity for the good child to escape … thankfully she didn’t.) No tiny escapee in pink footie pj’s racing off into the sunset in either direction.
By now the panic levels are really reaching their peak. She’s not in the house. She isn’t under beds, playing in the toilet, in cupboards, on top of bookcases, in the attic … we can’t find her. Desperately I look outside – after all, she can’t be there, the back door is closed. Taking a chance, I open the back door and look on the other side of the table.
There, in her pink footie pj’s, is our small escapee. Sitting happily, soaking wet in the bird bath. Somehow, she’d managed to open the back door, climb out, close the back door and escape into the backyard and remain undetected for around what can only be described as the longest 5 minutes in my life. Somehow she’d opened the back door, climbed outside, CLOSED the back door and escaped … and was content sitting in the murky, slimy water reserved for our feathery visitors, singing and playing happily.
Something tells me that if this is not even 2 years old, I’m going to need therapy before they’re 3 …