That would have been fine, if the outfit had not been long sleeved and wool, and had I not been living in Phoenix, home of the 122 degree day.

I understood quite well, when the littlest slave to fashion took a wardrobe stand.

Sunday it didn’t quite reach 122, but it was at least 114. I’m not sure where she found it (maybe the same pile from which baby Skylar emerged?)  but at one point in the afternoon, Sophie plunked a thick, fluffy white hat on her head and refused to take it off. It actually looked pretty cute with her skimpy striped sundress. She wanted to wear it to dinner at Grandma’s, so I let her.

That thing was off her head within seconds after I’d plunked her in the car seat.

Who’s the dummy? Not Sophie. I wore that red and white checked outfit for an entire summer; at least it felt that way. I wish I still had it. I’d wear it today.

But this is not about that. This about how, as I took the the corner to turn into the bank, my heart leapt up into my mouth. I heard a baby cry from the back seat, and not just any baby’s cry — this was a tortured baby, calling for its Mama in a pitiful voice.

My babies haven’t really been babies in years — even considering Sophie’s development and the fact that she insists on being called Baby most of the time, either that or Puppy or Kitty or PuppyKitty — so I don’t know why I got scared. (Particularly since this was, oh, the dozenth time I’ve heard that cry in the past few days as I’ve taken a sharp corner.) Well, yes, I do know why I got scared.

I’m terrified I’ll forget one of my kids in the car.

Don’t say you’ve never thought about it. That reminds me of an old story my mom tells, about her her dermatologist once said to her, “Look, there are two kinds of people. Pickers and liars.” I love that line. Love it.

I haven’t done the research to be sure, but I’d be willing to bet that Phoenix is the capital of “let your kid bake to death in a hot car”. It just happened this week, someone spotted a baby left in a car. I know it’s tempting, leaving your kid while you run into Walgreen’s, but first, if I may be so crass, that’s super-white trash. And second, in Phoenix, you’ll kill your kid. That baby lived, but only because someone saw it and tattled.

The saddest part is that the baked baby stories don’t get much play in the media. It’s the baked police dog stories that everyone goes for. (Again, a discussion for another day.)

Back to the sound from the back of my car. It’s a doll, I’m sure you figured that out already. Here’s what it looked like, when I opened the door to take a look:

Ray bought this little sweetheart (I want to learn how to link sound to this thing, only so you can hear the CREEEEPY baby sounds) at Fiesta Mall (that’s a tidbit for the locals) last week. Sophie picked it out. It goes with her, oh, I don’t know, 500 other baby dolls. But none are quite like this one. (The packaging’s long gone, so I can’t warn you off the brand name, but a friend did mention she saw a big row of them at Target last week — you sweep your hand over them and they all moan and cry and whine, “Mama Mama Mama”.)

She wound up on the floor of my car, where everything winds up. What I need to do is take her the f#*% out of my car (I have to rate this blog PG, since I gave the URL to my mother in law yesterday) and pitch her in a basket in the playroom, so she can haunt me late at night when I get up for a benadryl.

Or maybe (to quote my dear friend DHSS, who once wrote a memorable piece about guinea pigs), you’d like her?