My daughter, who is currently the Terrible Twos personified, speaks a language all her own. A language that is rarely understood and commonly compared to Ancient Sumerian. While this can be frustrating when trying to discern what in the hell she wants, it comes in handy on rare occasions.
Take, for example, when I find myself hauling her and her seven year old brother to church here in Florida for the first time. Alone.
The fact that she is obsessed with my boobs lately and spent the entire Liturgy of The Word trying desperately to grope me went almost completely unnoticed. I’m pretty sure. Her gleeful cries of “Emma’s, Emma’s, niiice, boobies?” could easily be confused for “Father, Son, Holy Spirit please bless us as we worship You here today.”
Likewise, her relentless insistence that she needed to go “Potty, Potty, POTTTTEEE!!!” (never mind that I had already taken her twice, with no results, and that this is simply the latest in her arsenal of ways to explore new surroundings and avoid non-fun situations) failed to illicit even the slightest snicker from my fellow Catholics. I’m quite certain that the untrained ear could just as easily assume she was repeating the Lord’s Prayer. Possibly in Latin.
Of course, sometimes she surprises me. Like yesterday, when the gifts were brought up and the entire congregation fell quiet as we sat in reverence during the consecration of the Host. This is always my favorite part of Mass, and not even a squirmy two year old on my lap can take away from the awesomeness I always feel at this point. Usually.
Until I feel the squirming two year old start farting on my lap. And I know right then and there, the spell is about to be broken. I lovingly held her closer and attempted to smother her head into my shoulder. But, alas, my efforts were in vain.
True to form, Emma threw back her head and let out a heart laugh of self satisfaction, before she belted out the ONE phrase she is capable of speaking with absolute clarity.
“Ohhhhh MOM! I FARTED! Emma FAAAAARRRRTED!” she squealed before collapsing into giggles.
“Emma, shhhh, shhhh, church voice, church voice, let’s whisper,” I hissed at her.
“Hee Heee, FARTS! Emma FARTS! YOU fart and Emma farts! Hee hee hee”.
I can’t understand why no one stopped to welcome the new family to the parish.