Momnesia

Formula for fun

In the perpetual game show "Why Can't Anything Go Right?" that is my life, my dad and I had to drive 30 minutes to retrieve my bank card from my sister, who had accidentally absconded with it. Say that five times fast: accidentally absconded. It's really hard.

Anyway, Emerson wanted to go with us. She loves to ride in her "Dadada's" (grandfather's) enormous Ford F-150, and she likes to chatter. She kept us entertained all the way there by drawing cartoons of each of us in humorous states of fear. "Dadada Steps on a Snake and Runs Away" was my particular favorite.

When that grew old, she tickled my neck. Y'all! I hate being tickled! I'd rather you punch me in the neck than tickle me. I can't explain it, except that I have to really struggle to contain violent anger whenever anyone tickles me. I've gotten better at controlling it these last few years because Emerson does it all the time.

"Emmie!" I cried, exasperated at having to repreatedly use my ninja-like swiftness to catch her fingers before she could wriggle them into my neck. "Cut it out, lady!"

"Why?" she giggled.

"Because I hate being tickled!"

You'd have thought I'd chucked cold water on her.

"But... but why don'tchoo lite it, mama?"

"I don't know. I've always hated it."

"Wull, I lub it!" she laughed.

"I know you do, Doodle. That's why I tickle you all the time," I said, and wriggled my fingers in her armpit. She shrieked and giggled, and I cut it out so my dad didn't smack me. No one likes high-pitched squealing while they're driving in Atlanta traffic.

"But, Mama, you should like tickles," Emmie said, eyebrows creased.

"Why?"

"Because! Iss fun!" she said.

"Not for me," I said.

"But tickles are good," she insisted. "Good tickles mean good times."


Well, now we know that she's apparently aiming for a career in advertising copy writing.