"I a rubber duck," Emma announces.
"Oh, are you a rubber duck?"
"I not a rubber duck."
"Well then what are you?"
"I a boat," she asserts.
"Oh, are you a boat?"
"No, I not a boat."
"What are you then?"
"I a fish," the next one.
I fan out my fingers and look down at my hands,
"You're a fish?"
"No I not a fish."
"What are you then?" I ask, trying to get to her to say that she's, 'a Emma,' or a 'little girl.' Little ragged islands of nail polish float in the middle of my nails. I look back up, she has given up on our conversation and is now jamming the beak of her rubber duck into the faucet.
"Is your duck's beak in the faucet?" No response. Continued jamming. I wonder why I even bother to paint my nails in the first place. Even if I can find time to sit still long enough to let the polish dry they are ruined the first time I wash dishes. That was the case even pre-baby.
She turns to me, and says a litany of words that I can only discern means she wants to go take her duck to her daddy, who is presently washing dishes in the kitchen. Picturing a dripping wet child running across the apartment and then wanting to get back in the bath I say,
"That seems a bit logistically difficult right now." In a few moments she shouts,
"I want to get out!" I lift her out, rubber duck and all. While I stand up to grab her towel she starts to climb back into the tub. I catch her,
"Nope, once you're out, you're out," and quickly wrap her in a towel.
We sit down on the closed toilet and I put toothpaste on her toothbrush and give it to her. While she is busy sucking and chewing away. I turn us away from the sink and contort myself around and reach an arm under the sink to get a comb out. I have to do this without her seeing because I know that once she sees the comb she will try to rip it out of my hand. And probably succeed. I sneakily comb the tangles out of her fine hair. Hoping this will be enough to deter the frizz she's been walking around with for the past week.
I finish combing and deposit the comb in the sink, because if she gets ahold of it who knows where it will end up.
"Here, honey, let me help you brush your teeth," this is met with clenched teeth and a wiggly interfering tongue. I never have any idea at how much I am getting clean when I brush her teeth. Scott walks up to the door,
"Emma do this, ahhhhh!" He pantomines opening his mouth wide. She bites the tooth brush.
"All right, all done," I announce and turn her loose. She runs past her daddy and into the apartment.
Nothing makes me smile like seeing her little naked bottom running away from me.