There are nights when things go smoothly and then there are nights that keep us on our toes.
During dinner, consisting of spaghetti pasta with white cheese sauce, broccoli and shrimp, our little Emmy Kate kept saying that she had a bite. A bite to eat? A bug bite? A lure in the water? We couldn’t really figure it out.
Dad made up a story of a small cut on her finger and some salt in the wound. But Mom wasn’t buying it. Something was bothering her.
Soon after supper, it was old Dave & Ava on Youtube, followed by some checking of the mail, a little water hose action (she’s getting good at asking for “wah-wah ho”) and one last song before bath time. We really hate letting her zombie out to the TV even though it gives us a chance to actually talk before we’re exhausted and want to be zombies ourselves watching Suits, Broadchurch, Chef’s Table, Peaky Blinders, etc.
To combat being lazy parents, Dad will often sing along to Dave & Ava, mimicking the silly motions and teaching Emerson the words, while Mom does her own dance party along side. It’s quite the sight to the passersby through the windows, I’m sure.
Well tonight, as the routine was continuing like normal, we went to start the bath and E.K. disappeared for a minute. She came back into the bathroom as Jess and I were discussing our impending move, and you would have thought she was carrying a lit stick of dynamite by Dad’s reaction. Mom’s reaction was much cooler.
It was almost like our reactions were functions of growing up in the Bible Belt and growing up where you can get drive-thru daiquiris, respectively. My panic was embarrassing. As our darling daughter walks into the bathroom with a stemless glass full of pinot noir, carried in both tiny hands, splashing side to side with the burgundy liquid of the gods sloshing side to side as drops splattered onto the tile floor, she carried with it the happiest little smirk on her face. So proud of knowing that bubble baths are best with a glass of red.
And as she lounged in her heavenly clouds of bubbles, (not) drinking her vino, we noticed a full set of teeth. Not in her mouth, mind you, but on her skin like little impressions of a vampire or shark. She had been bitten at school. And hard.
The culprit, knowing our child, got what was coming to him in the end. I’m sure if I Law & Order’d a skin sample from under her nails, he’d be caught. Guess all that “bite” talk at dinner was for that.
Bath time over, the wine set aside, it was time to head to the bedroom for wine-down, uhum, wind down time. But that didn’t happen too quickly.
First, we had to grab the detangler and detangle everything. Ttsstt ttsstt all over the place. The goat, Mom, the books, Dad, the chair, the bumper of her crib, the alligator toy. What didn’t get a proper hair dressing? Complete with combing shortly after.
And finally, as Emerson settled it on down, I see this shiny object in her palm. Then another. Would that be Mom’s wedding rings? Sure enough. As she first tried to put them up to her earlobes and realized her ears weren’t pierced, nor was she a magician with the power to do that fancy sold ring-connecting trick, she then got up promptly, grabbed her turtle purse looked both of us dead in the eyes and said “bye”.
Yes, our child is truly the shark-bit, wine-delivering, hair-dressing, jewelry thief. Superheroes, beware.