Emme has taken to speaking with a British accent. Most nearly all the time. She insists that is NOT British, but rather, Australian.
It sounds rather British to me.
Not that I’ve ever been to England. Or Australia.
If she had affected a southern drawl, I would have completely understood. And I would have known that it was my mother channeling herself through Emme. If I believed in that sort of thing. Which I do not.
Wednesday night was AWANA. Fiddledaddy magnanimously offered to take the girls in my stead, and wrangle our unruly class of 10 kids, ages kindergarten through 3rd grade.
Instinctively he knew, that if I had been crying intermittently all day at home, I probably would collapse in a heap of sobbing hormones right there in the middle of AWANA chaos.
And he would have been correct. He’s smart like that.
When he got home, he told me that we owed Emme a dollar.
A dollar is steep, people. The most I ever offer her in the form of a bribe is a dime.
It seems that on the drive to AWANA, Emme began practicing her Bible verse in a British accent. Fiddledaddy said to her, “I’ll give you a dollar if you get called on in counsel time to recite your verse in front of everyone, and you do it in that accent.”
Unfazed, and with a dollar sign in her eyes she shrugged, “um, okay.”
Of course she got called on to recite her verse in council time, in front of everyone. And she did it with a perfect British accent. Oops, I mean Australian accent. I did it again.
So, I’m out a dollar.
I’m rather enjoying the British accent. And it should come as no surprise to me since both her parents were bitten by the acting bug at very early ages. And our parents have the gray hair to prove it.
However, if she begins to sport a pink wig, we’re in trouble.
She’s already overly fond of Walgreens and Rite Aid.
Should I be worried?