Momnesia

To Emerson

This month, you learned to act. It was as I feared: your father's DNA has taken control.

"You hear it?" you have begun frequently asking, hands to your cheeks.

I stop and listen. "No, sweetheart, what is it?"

"You hear Pizza?"

No. I definitely don't hear pizza, although food does often call to me. Thus: my butt.

Anyway, they've nicknamed you "the actress" at day care, because you don't so much converse with people there as you do perform in a one-woman play which we will call "Emerson: The Musical." You tap dance, frequently burst into songs completed by a "big finish" with a loud and prolonged final note, and if we start to sing along with you, you throw up your hand and sternly declare, "No! MY turn!"

Just so you know, Woozie: It will always be your turn.