Oh, America. 2016. I know. You’re still trying to work out your resolutions. You’re wondering when I am ever going to launch my presidential campaign. And, of course, your heart is crying out: why silent so long, Oh Great One? Well, America, I promise I will get to ALL of these issues. But first a few updates.
Preschool. I am now officially in PRESCHOOL. Sure, I still go to the same place every day. But now I’m in the PRESCHOOL ROOM. Mommy says that this is what happens when you’re three. I say that this is what happens when you demonstrate your physical, intellectual, emotional and moral superiority over a bunch of toddlers. (Yes, I went there.) For example, now I am not just potty trained. I am a POTTY EXPERT. I make sure to keep my skills sharp. Whenever Mommy and Daddy bring me somewhere, I insist on a trip to the potty. Every 15 minutes. NO, AMERICA. This is not a sign that the Emma needs to visit the ladies who give her Doc McStuffins stickers. (Mommy calls them pediatricians.) I am simply practicing my skills. And exploring. (Eat. Your. Heart. Out. DORA.)
America, do you know that some potty rooms have soap machines that KNOW when you want soap?!? You just reach out your hand and there it is. Soap. In. Your. Hand. Just when you want it. America, you have NO IDEA how many times at home I have quietly reached out my hand and waited. And waited. For something I need. And do you know what I get? NOTHING. Go ahead and say it, America: disgraceful.
By the way, they also make machines that give you paper towels. So, what have we learned? They can make a machine that puts a perfect squirt of soap in a preschooler’s hand RIGHT WHEN SHE NEEDS IT. They can make a machine that gives a preschooler a paper towel RIGHT WHEN SHE NEEDS IT. But apparently they can’t make a Mommy who puts a TOTALLY NECESSARY MERMAID DOLL FROM THE STORE in a preschooler’s hand RIGHT WHEN SHE NEEDS IT. Scientists: you can do better. There’s your resolution for 2016. (You’re welcome.)
I will add, America, that there is NOTHING automatic in my potty room at home. Nothing. I have to squeeze my own soap. I have to use THE SAME TOWEL MY BROTHER USES. It’s like peeing in the dark ages, America. I’m not going to deny it.
Resolutions? I don’t bother with them. But I understand the striving of the masses. My suggestion? Join the lobby to add chocolate to the base of the food pyramid. Write your Congresspeople about funding mermaid doll machines in public potty rooms. And reduce your carbon footprint. (Hey, I read things . . . don’t overthink it, America.)
As for my presidential campaign, I have one word for you America: ageism. It is alive and well in the old U.S. of A. DO YOU KNOW THAT THERE IS A RULE THAT YOU NEED TO BE 35 TO BE PRESIDENT?!? Whose idea was THAT? Have you seen the Republican debates? You do not need to ACT like you are 35. But apparently you still need to BE 35. It. Is. An. Outrage. So, who am I supporting? Frankly, I’m still waiting for someone to start pandering to my demographic. Not a single candidate has even SUGGESTED making the unicorn our national mascot instead of that nasty bird. (When was the last time you saw a UNICORN devour a cat?) And how about floating Dora as Secretary of State? (Don’t even tell me she’s not qualified; that girl knows how to get around.)
And finally, you ask: Why silent so long? Oh, America. Don’t be so needy. I wanted you to have some time to figure things out for yourself. Plus, Mommy has been busy with her new job and apparently that means that I don’t get as much time on her computer. Whatever. (Again, don’t overthink it.) I’m here now. Be happy. Kiss, kiss.
How is Jacob? He’s fine. Actually better than fine. He is my BEST puppy. No, really. It’s our favorite game. Jacob pretends to be a puppy. And I “pretend” to be his master. It brings out a quality I like to encourage in Jacob: obedience. He lets me pat his head. And he brings me stuff in his mouth. Mommy seems bothered by this. I don’t know why. (That’s. What. Good. Puppies. Do. MOMMY.) I think we should reward it. Not for nothing, Mommy, but maybe if you scratched Jacob’s tummy now and then he would be more willing to do his reading homework. Wear his winter jacket when he goes outside. Or, say, flush the potty. (I understand the confusion, Jacob. NO, it is NOT an automatic potty. I know. I’m here if you need a shoulder.) Anyway, as I said, I like to reward Jacob for obedience. Even if it means my slippers get a bit soggy. (It’s called operant conditioning, Mommy. Look it up.)
Even when he is not being a puppy, Jacob and I are playing together more and more. Mommy says it has to do with us finally being close enough developmentally. (Don’t feel badly, Jacob; it takes most kids a while to rise to Emma’s level.) One of our favorite games is called The Tail Game. We each attach a pretend tail to the back of our pants and run around trying to get the other person’s tail. I like this game. I just have one rule to make it really fun. No one is allowed to take my tail. (Or I will shriek. And cry.) Once everyone understands this rule it is an AWESOME game. (I’m not gonna lie. I am REALLY good.)
Of course, now that Jacob and I are, well let’s just say it, pretty much on the same level, we sometimes fight over toys. Like the other day, when we both wanted to play with the jump rope. Jacob came up with a solution. “Let’s race and whoever wins gets to play with the jump rope.” Mommy started to say something about how this wasn’t fair because Jacob is bigger and faster. She didn’t get to finish though, because Jacob yelled “GO!” And then he started to run across the room. I don’t know why Mommy was so worried. It was TOTALLY fair. I ran right to the jump rope. And had my turn.
I hope you’ll support me in November, America. Kisses.