Momnesia

Not a Wimpy Kid

Emmie's on restriction for running her mouth in class, like, ALL THE TIME. So she can't watch TV, play the Wii, play on the computer, wear her new princess dress, or play with my makeup.

"But... what can I do?" She asks, eyebrows back on her forehead like a begging dog.

"I'm sure you'll think of something," I answer, trying not to look at her for fear that I'll start laughing.

"Huuuuuuuhhhh..." She sighs, and flops out of the room like a fish with legs.

Shortly, however, she prances back in, carrying a tiny, rainbow-hued spiral notebook.

"I'm goeend ta write in my diary," she announces, airily.

"Oh, that's a wonderful idea," I enthuse. God, anything but Uno. That was $4 well spent, but it's wearing a little thin. Plus, well... she kicks our butts.

"I LUB my diary," she says, daintily setting up her writing area. "Not da kind dat makes poopy. Da kind wif da stories."

*choke * sputter *

"Um... What?" I manage to ask.

"Da story kind. Not da poopy kind."

"I... don't understand...?"

"Of da diary!" She exclaims. "Not da poopy diary! Story diary!"

Oh. Ha. She means "diarrhea." Apparently I didn't explain the difference very well.