She’s a screamer.
I’ve tried everything but two-year-old Evie just needs to yell it out.
I pick her up. She screams. I set her down. She screams.
Her daddy comes over to help and the screaming increases. He slinks away, big-antlered buck in the high beams of her screams.
So, no rescue then.
No pinch-hit from Daddy, and I’m stuck –
I mean blessed –
with her continual presence.
I pick her back up and look into her glaring eyes. It’s you and me, babe. Thunderdome.
We establish a relative calm—relative, because she’s still screaming but the volume is slightly lower and therefore this scenario feels successful—with me holding her and walking and bouncing. Not too much bounce.
Just a little bounce-walking,
and as long as I keep this up until I die we should be okay.
I’m sweating so hard I can smell myself. I haven’t slept or showered or eaten in days. I’m just a walking, bouncing, anti-screaming device.
I text a friend and autocorrect changes “Evie” to “evil.” I stifle a hysterical laugh.
As an ardent fan of horror movies, I love scream queens, from Jamie Lee Curtis to Janet Leigh, Neve Campbell to Vera Farmiga. Scream queens provide countless hours of entertainment on my TV. Sarah Michelle Gellar and Drew Barrymore and Sissy Spacek. I love the run-and-stumble. The don’t-open-the-door. The he’s-right-behind-you. The difference between what happens on my TV and what happens in my home is the volume control. Also, none of those nice ladies see me as their personal psycho vampire ghostface. I don’t even own a big knife.
[movie announcer voice]: In a world filled with Evil Evie, this time it’s personal. KEEP READING