Hiding and Seeking

We've got some red velvet curtains we hung in front of our closet doors long before Sophie was born. She's taken to hiding behind them, now and then. Luckily she doesn't pull (too hard)--she just wants to hide.

Yesterday, I was gathering toys, pouring milk, wiping the floor (Sophie's usual postprandial halo of food around her highchair), making sure Mono and Pato were at their posts in her crib, and cuing up her song--all in preparation for bedtime.

I wasn't watching her. At least not with any great degree of concentration. She would pitter-patter-pitter-patter-whoosh! run past me as I swept up some crumbs; she would pitter-patter-pitter-patter-whoosh past me again as she rushed back to her room. I could hear her giggling and chattering all the way.

Come bath time, I heard her laughing softly to herself in the bathroom. I went in--and no Sophie to be seen. Where was she?

Where's Sophie? This last having been said out loud, the bathrobe hanging on the hook on the back of the door began shaking with uncontrollable mirth. And giggling louder.

She whipped aside the bathrobe for a triumphant reveal and grinned at me with a fair helping of smug.

I laughed out loud. So we did it again and again and again.