Mommy tells me that this week marks the one year anniversary of when she began exposing the seedy underbelly of our family. I mean “blogging”. (TO-MAY-TO, TO-MAH-TO.) Wow. One year. Or as I like to call it: HALF OF MY LIFE.
It’s okay, America. I don’t mind it. I’ve gotten used to living the life of a celebrity. Do I have any privacy? NO. (Mommy, we really should discuss that, by the way.) But I benefit from the perks enjoyed by those in the public eye. Like free books from the library. Smiles from complete strangers. And of course, being recognized. Just the other day, I was at a smoothie shop with Mommy and this man WOULDN’T. STOP. STARING. AT ME. For the record, I happened to be rocking a pink t-shirt, pink-and-white floral pants and my pink sandals. Anyway, this Mensa Scholar says to Mommy:
Member-of-My-Adoring-But-Not-Too-Bright-Public: How old is he? He’s ADORABLE.
Mommy: She’s two.
Member-of-My-Adoring-But-Not-Too-Bright-And-Slightly-Hard-of-Hearing-Public: How old is he?
Mommy: It’s a girl. She’s two.
Clearly, some things haven’t changed. Apparently, until I have hair like Elsa’s, everyone will ASSUME I’M A BOY. Whatever.
But speaking of Elsa, ‘member how my brother used to run around the house belting out “Let it goooooo, let it goooooo, can’t hold it back anymoooore” . . .? You’ll be happy to know that about three or four months ago, he finally stopped. Something just didn’t feel right. So, I picked up the torch. (Is NOTHING sacred, people?) At first Mommy wasn’t exactly sure what was going on.
Me: Leh ee goooo.
Me: Leh ee goooo. Leh ee goooo.
Mommy: Emma?? Are you . . . ? Dan, is she . . . ?
Me: Leh ee gooo. Leh ee gooo.
Mommy: OH LORD.
I know I was singing it right because Mommy made the EXACT. SAME. FACE. She always made when Jacob sang it. Maybe it’s her nostalgia face. (Mommy, YOU’RE WELCOME.) Hmm. Although it looks kind of like the face she makes when Jacob steps on her foot. Weird.
So, let’s see . . . what else do I need to update you on? Oh right. Our move. As you may know, we are now renting an apartment. I don’t know what “apartment” means but apparently it’s short for “Emma and Jacob will now share a room”. Go ahead, America. Say it: POOR EMMA. Yes. That’s right. My former oasis-of-calm, my Emma Cave, my little private retreat has been SAVAGELY BREACHED. I am now sharing quarters with my brother. Okay, truth be told, I worship the kid. But The Emma needs her space. Somehow, just KNOWING that Jacob is going to tip toe into the room half an hour after I go to bed keeps me up. It’s so exciting! I mean UNACCEPTABLE. (Is-he-here-yet?-Is-he-here-yet?-Is-he-here-yet??)
Which brings me to my next point. That Mommy and Daddy refuse to acknowledge. People: I. AM. TIRED. Not in some mamby-pamby over-tired toddler way. I’m not going to just throw myself down on the floor and have a tantrum about it. (I mean it’s not like when Mommy doesn’t let me eat raisins right out of the box or something truly tantrum-worthy like that.) The Emma is a PROBLEM SOLVER. I know just what I need to fix this problem. And I’ve asked for it. SEVERAL TIMES. Seriously, Mommy and Daddy, what is the point of teaching me (MULTIPLE) languages if I use my words and you don’t IMMEDIATELY GIVE INTO MY COMPLETELY REASONABLE DEMANDS?!? I can’t tell you how many times in the past few weeks, I have had this conversation . . .
Mommy: Yes, Emma.
Me: I want coffee.
Me: Mommy. I. WANT. COFFEE.
Mommy looks at me blankly. THIS IS NOT BRAIN SURGERY, PEOPLE.
Mommy: Emma, I don’t think you really want coffee.
Me (shrieking, because that’s the only thing that gets through to these people): I. WANT. COFFEE. I. WANT. COFFEE.
Jacob (my supposed comrade in arms): Emma, I don’t think you’d like the taste of coffee.
ET TU, JACOB?
Mommy: Emmy, how about I get you some water? Or juice? Are you thirsty?
I’m tired and I WANT TO DANCE WITH THE CAFFEINE GODS, WOMAN. WHAT DOES IT TAKE TO GET THROUGH TO YOU?
In case you’re wondering, I have not had a drop. NOT. A. DROP. OF. COFFEE. Daddy drinks it all the time. He never shares. Ever.
Speaking of communication, I am now at my new holding facility. I mean daycare. Where they speak an odd dialect of Japanese. They call it “Spanish”. It’s okay. Cuz I’ve pretty much learned to get by using nonverbal communication anyway. (By the way: Awesome. Party. Trick.) The other day, the director of my daycare said this to Mommy.
Director: She’s doing so well!
Director: I think hearing Japanese from your husband has really helped. She responds appropriately to commands. Today I said to her ‘[Spanish word][Spanish word][Spanish word][Spanish word]’ and pointed to a book and she went right over and got it for me.
Yeahhhhh. No offense, Sweetie. Cuz I really like you and all. But let me just say a big THANK YOU to the kids who came through this establishment before me and lowered your expectations. You pointed. I saw. I got. A trick that I believe is also regularly performed BY PUPPIES. (Woof.) Just so you know, I can also perform this trick when spoken to in German. French. And my native Swahili. Moving on.
So that’s where things stand, people. One year later and I’m still here. Bald and adorable as ever. Keeping everyone in my fumbling family in line. And picking up the slack. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to go finish baby-proofing the apartment.
My work is never done.