Emma’s Smirking Revenge

Hi Mama and Daddy-

Just in case you couldn’t tell who is typing this, it’s your daughter, Emma. If Daddy was careless enough to leave his laptop open on the table near my highchair, why shouldn’t I take advantage of the opportunity to set the record straight? As far as I’m concerned, the world needs to hear my story: It’s a story of a baby wronged, and after exactly 365 days, a baby avenged.

I would be willing to bet dollars to diapers that the two of you don’t even remember what went down the evening of April 2, 2008, but I do. How could I forget? After all, it was only my second night ever in this cold, cruel world, having just been born and all, and I was trying my hardest to acclimate to my new and foreign surroundings. Sure, I understand that you guys were adjusting too, but that doesn’t excuse you for what happened, now does it? I mean, you are both highly educated adults, a bit sleep-deprived, granted, but still. But still.

Anyway, you two rookies had been doing a pretty good job of feeding me and changing my wet diapers, I’ll give you that much. It wasn’t until Mama discovered the secret drawer in the bottom of my clear plastic bassinet that the trouble really started. I will never forget the absolutely clueless tone in your voice when you asked Daddy, “Why do we have so many of these?”, in reference to the half-dozen high stack of newborn-sized white shirts folded neatly in that drawer. “I dunno,” was his equally eloquent, yet strangely mumbled reply.

It was right then and there that I recall the two of you staring at each other and coming to the same realization that I had arrived at a whole lot sooner than either of you noobs: Thirty-six freaking hours in the same stinky, crusty, and drooled-on tiny white t-shirt does not a happy baby make. And then you have to make a call to the on-duty nurse for assistance with the changing of the offending and offensive garment: Are you kidding me?

I decided that the best course of action was to play it cool… for the time being. Sure, I had been force-fed my first spoonful of betrayal, and in swallowing it down I had acquired the bittersweet taste of vengeance, but the here and the now was neither the time nor the place to get even.

I would wait for the perfect opportunity to hatch my nefarious and dastardly scheme. Then, I would lull you in with my cutest baby in the whole wide world act and let the hammer fall when you were most vulnerable. My plan would work, it had to work: Vengeance would be mine.

All I had to do was wait for my opening.

And wait I did. Hours became days, weeks turned into months, and before I knew it, I turned one. I awoke the morning of April 2, 2009, the day after my birthday, with a singular thought and a laser-like focus. Today was the day: The day of reckoning.

From the moment you guys arrived home from school, I gave you exactly what you wanted: A heaping helping of unadulterated cuteness, a side of my patented toothy smile, and to top the whole thing off, a dash of 100% pure, adorable, Emmabug charm. As the afternoon turned into evening, I continued the illusion by keeping the usual whining to a bare minimum. Even my post final bottle of the night sleepy baby act was sublime, a truly Oscar-worthy performance, if I can say so myself.

All modesty aside, the real acting had yet to begin. After allowing the two of you about an hour of uninterupted sleep time, I made my move around 11:00 pm when I turned on the tears and did my best impression of the siren on a fire engine. Because I had greased the wheels so well earlier in the day, I knew I had built up enough political capital with Mama to earn a coveted “get into bed with Mom and Dad” ticket, effectively bypassing the usual “pick me up, change me, and put me back in the crib” routine I was used to.

Once I was placed in bed between you guys, it was like taking candy from a baby, or better yet, like taking sleep from an adult. Hee, hee, hee. Every thirty to forty-five minutes from that point forward, I woke up with a few minutes of wimpering sobs or a well-placed scissor-kick to the back or even a full-on wail of an hysterical cry. I kept this up until about 4:00 am when I finally passed out from pure exhaustion and exhilaration.

As I reflect back on it now, the hour and a half between when I fell asleep to when your alarm went off was the best ninety minutes of sleep in my life. In that short amount of time, I dreamed of spotless and pristine white baby shirts and my parents walking around the next day in a zombie-like trance. I also dreamed of a place and a time where all scores were settled and all debts were paid.

When we awoke as a family the next morning and I stared into your exhausted eyes, I knew that vengeance was mine. But it wasn’t as sweet tasting as I hoped it would have been. I knew then, exactly one year later, that we were finally even and I’m okay with that. Cool? Cool.

Now, let’s have a conversation about that horrible dress you put me in last week, shall we?

Love,

Emma

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