It’s a normal kid thing, I realize, but it has me in awe of how unaware of their surroundings small humans can be. I’m forever tripping over Emma because she doesn’t think to make room for both of us in small spaces. She cuts me off on walks because WHY BOTHER MINDING OTHERS WHEN YOU FANCY A ZIGZAG DOWN THE STREET?
I’ll see her face gobbed with chin chocolate, upper lip cookie crumbs, dried up cheek frosting, and wonder, HOW CAN YOU NOT FEEL THAT ON YOUR FACE?
The juice stache is a given; if Emma’s had anything with dye to drink, there’s facial evidence. I shudder to think of the layers of invisible beverage residue forensic scientists could uncover from her upper lip.
I’ve pondered aloud the age she might develop feeling in her face. She rolls her eyes and wipes her mouth with her sleeve.
I don’t ever wonder for long, because in walks her 36-year-old father sporting the same juice moustache. I guess it’s genetic for one’s facial nervous systems to be shut down?
“When’s the last time you drank juice, Steve?”
“This morning?” He reflexively scans for the closest mirror.
“As in EIGHT hours ago? And how many meetings did you have? You and Emma should consider going into business together, only ever talking about Very Important Matters.”
Strangely, neither of them find me hilarious.
Rude, I say. Rude.