It’s a dark day when your toddler first outsmarts you. Emma has always been extremely bright for her age. She was speaking in full, concise sentences by 14 months. She knew all of her shapes, colors, and even letters by a year and a half. She could point out and recite the entire alphabet by age two. At the age of three she wrote her own name.
Where did we go wrong?
I didn’t expect to be asking myself that as a parent until her teenage years. I mean, sure, I figured I’d ruin the first kid somewhere down the line but I thought I’d at least wait until she got to school. That way I’d be able to shuffle blame toward “that slutty little friend of hers” or even a “broken education system.”
How wrong I was.
At the age of four, Emma already seems to be directing her efforts to evil. Beneath that heavenly sweet and adorable façade lurks the churning think-tank of a criminal mastermind. She appears to already have an aptitude for manipulation and deceit. She’s working the system. She’s finding the loopholes without effort. She’s messing with my head. She’s a loose cannon.
She must be stopped.
The other night, Jenny and I were enjoying a few minutes to ourselves after putting the girls to bed. Jenny was nibbling on the Symphony bar I’d bagged for her with my incredible hunter/gatherer skills. We were nestled together on the couch, watching Californication on the laptop.
“Thump, thump, thump,” echoes the small, quick, methodical footfalls from upstairs.
Jenny pauses the show. David Duchovny was frozen on screen, either in the middle of having sex, smoking a cigarette, making a witty remark, or all three – I don’t remember.
I crane my head toward the hallway just in time to see a flash of pink and purple at the top of the stairs.
“Emma?” we both shout.
Silence.
“Emma! We know you’re up there!”
As sweet as can be, she inches into view, smiling like she knows she’s not in trouble.
“You’re supposed to be in bed, kiddo. Why aren’t you?” I ask.
A sly smile creases the corners of her mouth and she begins to descend the stairs with confidence.
“I just wanted to give you both loves,” she says, running to give Jenny a hug.
“Ooooohhhhhhhhh! How sweet!!” Jenny says.
Hugging my wife, Emma turns to shoot me a look of pure maniacal glee. You’ve seen those movies, the ones where the guy pretending to be crippled uses his lie to get away with putting his hands all over the protagonist’s girl? You know that look he gives him while playing grab ass with the woman he loves?
That’s the look my four-year-old is giving me.
I still take her in for a hug before sitting her on my lap. The confrontation is eminent. She knows what she’s doing. I know what she’s doing. Time to shut it down.
“That was pretty sneaky, Emma!” I say, giving her props but also letting her know it’s not okay.
She smiles, nods, and chuckles.
“I’m on to you, you know!” I say. “You think you’re gonna have me wrapped around your finger by the time you’re 12, don’t you?”
That same sly smile begins pulling her face into a knowing grin. She pauses for dramatic effect before looking me directly in the eyes and saying…
“Or 10.”
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