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We brought her back on Sunday, and yesterday was a bit off-kilter, since B. was home for the holiday. Not that we did anything for the holiday, unless watching roughly 12 hours of "King of the Hill" reruns constitutes "doing something". But it was still different, because B. was home to do all the work while I partook in a day of benign child neglect.

Today, it was back to business as usual. I woke up to The Whining at 8 a.m. Fed her breakfast to minimal whining, then turned her loose to play. That was fun for about seventeen minutes. Then, it was time to pounce on the remote and aim it at the television while moaning, "Tubbies! Tubbies! Tuuuuu-uuuuu-uuuuuuuuuu-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-b-bieeeeeeeeeees!!!!"

I tried to stick to my guns. I really did. I've sworn that I will not surrender to The Whining. By surrendering, I'm just teaching her to use The Whining to get what she wants.

Did I mention that a porition of my brain was already oozing out my ears before The Whining began? Yeah, well, I'm weak. So I turned on the damn "Teletubbies". Which was all well and good, had our cheap knock-off generic Tivo not frozen the fuck up in the middle of the show.

At this point, while my child staggered around the room, screaming for the Tubbies as she crashed into furniture and toys, I realized that I might as well be living with a mean drunk. The screaming's there. So's the beligerence. Irrational? You betcha. The bodily fluids are definitely present. And here I am, smiling and saying, "Sweetheart, would you like another beer? I'll get you one right away. Just please please please please don't throw the bottle at my head when you're finished. Please?"

And when that bottle bounces off my forehead and I think I can't take one more act of drunken abuse, she gets all sleepy and snuggly and it's all a-ok.

The rest of our day was more of the same. We spent the afternoon running errands. One minute, she was the smiling, laughing lampshade-bedecked life of the party. The next? Angry screaming. Angry, angry screaming. "What in the world's wrong?" the cashier at Trader Joe's asked when one second The Lil' Drunk was laughing and smiling, and literally the next second she was red-faced and sobbing like I'd just threatened to leave her in the freezer case.

"You'll have to excuse her," I said. "Her excessive drinking makes her have erratic mood swings."

At Whole Foods, she took it down to a dull, ever-present whine. I set my resolve: I will not respond to whining. I will not hear it. I will not react. I will enter my own world la-la-la there isn't a child issuing a constant low-grade moan in my cart. That's just a bad cart wheel. Nothing more.

The Whiner eventually realized that she wasn't going to get anything out of me. The Enabler has left the building! So while we were in the check-out, she leaned as far to the side as she could until she got the attention of a woman in the next lane.

"Oh, how cute are you?" the woman shrieked. "Would you like a beer?"

"Uuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuugh .... eeeeeeeeeeeeeeehhhhh ... iiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeee .... *hic*," The Whiner replied.

"Are you singing, Sweetheart?" the woman asked.

"She's whining to anyone who'll listen," I snipped, right before The Whiner's empty bottle clipped my left ear. At least when she gets really drunk from the whining, her aim gets bad.

A minute and a half later, while I was strapping her into her carseat (or as I like to call it, restraining her in the drunk tank), the whining suddenly stopped and she was ecstatic - completely, utterly over the moon - because there was a small baggie of Fruit Loops! In the front seat!! For her!!! FRUIT LOOPS!!!!!!!

Five minutes later, the ecstacy had converted back to agony because, ah hell, I have no idea why. Probably because the Fruit Loops weren't loopy enough.

Tomorrow's game plan: start drinking before The Whiner wakes up. Beat her at her own game.