Hello, America.  Time for an update.  A lot has happened since I last wrote.  A LOT.

Daddy got a new job.  In a different city.  And now it takes him up to an HOUR to get to work. Confused, America?  Are you thinking to yourself, “But Emma just moved last summer so that her family could live close to where her Daddy works.  And he wouldn’t have a long commute.  And could spend more time PLAYING WITH EMMA.  (And Jacob.)”  America, this is all this is true.  Which brings me to my next point:

WHY DO GROWN UPS THINK THAT *TODDLERS* ARE IRRATIONAL?!?

(Look in the mirror, grownups. LOOK.  IN.  THE.  MIRROR.)

Daddy, let me try to explain this to you in terms you will understand.  Let’s say we’re at the playground.  And I’m playing on the swings.  And you want to be closer to me.  Because. I’m. delightful.  So you walk over to me.  And you’re standing RIGHT. NEXT. TO. ME.  Nice, hmm?  ‘Cept all of a sudden I run across the playground.  (Because I see Jacob and he’s doing something that is not age appropriate for me.  Or him.  Which means that: I. MUST. DO. IT.)  So, now you’re not close to me any more.  Even though you just moved to be close to me.   REALLY ANNOYING, ISN’T IT?  (In case you’re wondering Daddy, that tight feeling in your tummy is most likely a tantrum about to happen.  Don’t hold back.)

Whatever.  Apparently Daddy is chasing something called “vocational fulfillment”.  And it is now located in a different city.  (Slippery little bugger.)

So what does all this mean?  Daddy still drops me off at school in the morning.  But then he drives for a really long time.  And he doesn’t get home until later.  Which means that now Mommy does the cooking.  Mommy calls this a “natural consequence”.  (It’s the only way Daddy will learn.)   Daddy doesn’t seem thrilled.  But he hasn’t complained.  Yet.

I don’t know what all the fuss is about.  I love Mommy’s cooking.  Since Daddy started his new job, we’ve had pasta three times.  One time it was shaped like little peace signs.  And another time it was shaped like Arthur.  ARTHUR, PEOPLE.

MY GOD: Mommy.  Is.  Brilliant.  And she doesn’t mess up our food the way Daddy does by adding things like spices.  Or flavor.  For some reason, Daddy seems a little bit sad about this.  Or maybe eating pasta in the shape of Arthur’s face just makes him sad.  I think I know what’s wrong here, Daddy.  Let me explain: It’s not REALLY Arthur.  It’s just pasta that LOOKS LIKE Arthur.  There, there.  It’s a confusing world sometimes, isn’t it, Daddy?

In other news, Mommy had a parent-teacher conference last week with my teacher Lucy.  And the other teacher, Whatshername.  Mommy said she learned lots of things.  I’ll list them.  In no particular order:

1. I am progressing nicely with my Spanish.

2.  When something happens in class that I don’t like, I take it out on Whatshername.  She usually has nothing to do with the situation.   (I’m sorry, but why doesn’t anyone value consistency anymore?)

3. I have good fine motor coordination.

4. When my best friend V. says she wants a toy, I get it for her.  This usually involves taking it away from another child.  But first I explain to the other child, “This is for V.”  (There is no reason to be rude.)  Then I take the toy by brute force.  For some reason, this touching display of loyalty to V. is seen as inappropriate.  Inappropriate?  Seriously?  People, what I have just described to you is a MARKETABLE SKILL.

Yes, Bain & Company, I AM available to work on mergers and acquisitions.  FINE, MOMMY: I’m available as soon as I graduate from preschool.    (Apparently my “vocational fulfillment” is not a high priority in this family.)

Oh, one more update.  I am now “potty trained”.  Given that I had taught myself how to use the potty months before Mommy and Daddy let me do it on a regular basis, it was a fairly quick process.  Mommy bought stickers.  And I got to put a sticker on my sticker chart each time I used the potty. You can probably see where this is going.  Since I already KNEW HOW TO USE THE POTTY, what Mommy really trained me to do was to ration my pee so that I could earn more stickers.  (Nice work, Mommy.)  Now let’s hope all this “potty training” doesn’t lead to a UTI.

Well, that’s all for now.  Peace out, America.