So, listen Sophie the giraffe. When I was a little girl I used to “run away” when I was unhappy. I would shout something dramatic like, “THAT’S IT!!,” slam the back door of our house and stomp down the driveway, only stopping to look behind me to make sure someone was watching. They were obviously out of sight, so I held my head up high and continued my march. I would get to the road in front of our house and sneak down to hide under the bush. Honestly, Sophie, I was too scared of strangers to go any further and running away wasn’t my real motivation. But I think you know that already.
I would sit under that bush imagining my mother crying wretchedly, howling, “Oh if only I had given her a Barbie instead of Sindy, the English knock off. Maybe she would still be here.” The police would come, the whole town would start lamenting how great I am… until I stroll out only to be covered in hugs and kisses, carnivals would be thrown in my honor and Barbies would rain from the sky. However, after about six or eight minutes, I couldn’t hear the sirens so I’d wander out and see no one. A little further and still no one. Finally, I’d walk back into the house and realize that no one had even noticed I was gone. My point in this fascinating, if not lengthy, story Sophie, is that life goes on.
So, if you happen to be hiding behind little man’s bed (*note to self: check behind bed) thinking, “Oh, they miss me so much,” you may be surprised to find out that maybe we don’t.
And if giraffes understand irony, I apologize. I realize that in writing a blog about your missing status, I might be showing that we do actually miss you, but… umm… ok, I have no explanation.
Oh, just come home or crawl out from behind the bed please. I’ll look into giraffe carnivals for you.