Momnesia

Feminism fail

Emmie is suddenly pretty intense about getting ready for school.

"How do I look?" she'll ask.

"Beautiful, as always," I tell her.

The other morning she was especially industrious, putting on her kiddie glitter makeup and spritzing herself with my body spray.

"What's with the fancy, Doodle?"

"I'm tryeend ta attrack boys," she said.

This concerned me. A lot. For one, Emerson will never be allowed to date. Ever. For two, I will kill any boys who come near her. Oh, I want her to have a healthy sexuality and to be comfortable with it, and all. I just don't want her to ever use it.

Yet, in a rare moment of self-restraint, I did not padlock her in a tower.

"Whatcha gonna do with them if you catch them?" I asked, as nonchalantly as one can when plotting where to hide bodies.

Emmie narrowed her eyes, looked off into the distance and growled, "Make dem do stuff for me."

"Oh, right on," I said.

I really have to work on this verbal incontinence.