Momnesia

And the next American Idol is...

I was visiting with my friend, Amber. During our conversation, I notice Emerson building a stuffed animal wall in front of Amber's daughter, Evie.

"Now, you can't cross dis line, or else you gonna be in trouble," Emmie said, as politely as one can say such a thing to a 3-year-old.

Evie's little face crumpled, and I realized that they weren't playing a game. Emmie didn't want Evie near her new toy, a karaoke machine Amber had just gifted her. (I foresee thousands of hours of Bieber in my future, and it is not pretty.)

"Emerson!" I said. "That's not how we treat other children."

Evie buried her face in Amber's lap, clearly upset.
"She thinks you're serious, honey; tell her you were joking," Amber said.

Emmie was totally serious, but she obliged, gently telling Evie she was just teasing, and they could play together. But then she turned to me, karaoke microphone in hand, with a plea for understanding: "But, Mom, I'm gonna be a famous singer when I growed up an' I hafta practice!"

I was stumped as to which misconception to address first. The one that says I'm going to approve that career choice, or the one that says you can stomp a 3-year-old's feelings to get there.

I guess I'll be paying for piano lessons soon.

"Violin," Emerson corrected me. "But I already knowed how to play it."

Oh, well, cheaper for me, then.