Momnesia

My Perfume? It's Eau de Fear de Zombies

Augusta, Ga. -

"Honey, I'm going to get the mail," I call to my husband as I survey the front yard through the windows. It's dark outside, and wet.

"I comin' too, Mama!" Emmie thunders to the front door. She loves the mailbox, even though it's practically IN the road.

"Okay... Don't get hit by a car," Scott calls.

"Or eat by a elephant!" Emmie calls back, cheerfully nonchalant.

"Or trip and fall in the dark on the pecans!" Scott calls, as I slip on my shoes.

"Or get smash in da head wif a tree!" Emmie calls back, a grin on her face.

"And don't go in the street!" Scott yells, as I open the door.

"Or get chomp by a zombie!" Emmie wiggles her eyebrows and fingers menacingly.

Whoa, zombies? I slam the door shut.

"Wuss wrong, Mama?"

"Uhh..."

I'm not afraid of zombies. I'm not afraid of zombies. There's no such thing as zombies.

"I wanna get da mail."

"Juuust... a second..." I peer out the windows. All clear. For now...

"Less go, Mama! Maybe ders anudder Chrissmass card!"

Crap... I'm not afraid of zombies. I'm not afraid of zombies. There's NO SUCH THING as zombies.

"Whatchoo say, Mama?"

Did I say that out loud?

"Come on..." I open the door and grab the broom next to the door. (Sigh) I really need therapy.

Emmie pokes her head out, innocent curiosity etched on her face.

"Ders no zombies, Mama," she shrugs, as though commenting on the weather. Partly cloudy with a chance of zombies. Scattered undead with a light wind from the northeast.

But her comment snaps me back. When did my ridiculous neurosis get so bad that Emmie knows what I'm thinking? Good lord. Someone slap me.

"There's no such thing as zombies," I declare to Emmie, put the broom back, and take her hand on the precarious front steps. Stupid pecans roll under our feet until we reach the grass.

"Mama?" she questions.

"Yeah, Doodle?"

"If ders no such fing as zombies..."

"Yeah?"

"Den wuss DAT?!" she shrieks and points over to our left. I jump and whirl and clutch her to me - and maybe even pee a little - trying to figure out what she sees. Nothing! Just the neighbor's ugly bushes! Then a strange sound emanates. Emmie is having trouble breathing. What on earth?! I kneel and shove the hair out of her eyes, patting her back, just as she stumbles on her feet and lands on her side in the moist, cold grass.

"I TRICK you, Mama!" she shrieks.

Son of a... She is laughing at me!

And hard. This is so funny to her that she is wheezing, holding her stomach - and, of course, broadcasting our location to any peckish zombies that might be out for an evening stroll... FOR BRAINS.

"Are you kidding me?!"

"Yes! I mate a jote on you!" she screams between howling laughter.

"It was a rhetorical question."

Emmie is not concerned with Socratic method. She is too busy lying in the grass trying not to throw up from all the frickin' hilarity on which she has gorged herself. She gasps, clutching her stomach, and slowly devolves into soft giggles.

"Mama, wuz you scared?" she asks, rather unnecessarily, I think. I mean, I was either scared or a cobra snaked down my underwear.

"No, I was just playing," I lie - TOTALLY LIE - to her. "There's no such thing as zombies."

"I know, Mama. Das juss a story. But I fink you WUZ scared." she grins. This child is very pleased with herself.

"Was not."

"Wuz too."

"Was not."

"Wuz too."

... Yeah. Was too.