Life on the (Sesame) Street

The Squeaker has discovered Sesame Street.

Specifically, she has found that lovable red haired, googly-eyed, mop topped monster affectionately know as Elmo. And while it’s better than a certain purple annoyasaurus, I am a little concerned with her zealousness for Elmo.

Whenever a muppet comes on the TV – any muppet (including most Star Wars characters) – she begins to chant “Ehmo! Ehmo! Ehmo!” and pirouettes around the room.

And then there’s the toy issue.

Every Elmo toy in her collection is hers.

Everyone else’s Elmo toy is hers.

Elmo is hers. If she could get to Sesame Street, she’d hang around on Sesame Street corners, frequenting Hooper’s store and writing a barrage of multicolored crayon scribbles professing her undying love.

And if that was all, hoarding Elmo toys and daydreams of living in a one room NYC-style walkup with Elmo, we’d be a-okay.

Unfortunately, her demeanor deteriorates rapidly when Elmo doesn’t appear on the screen - the chants become questions and the pirouettes turn into lumbering stomps, each thud of her tiny foot punctuated by angry denials.

Ehmo…?
The lower lip quivers.

Ehmo!
Sadness turns to anger which quickly becomes tears of rage if we don’t divert her attention quickly with some bright, shiny object. It is a small window of opportunity and once the window closes, Katy bar the door.

Wailing and gnashing of the teeth ensues. Crying is certainly expected. Objects being thrown are not out of the question. Neither are wild arm swings.

I will say we are working on the ‘tude…

Two months ago, I mentioned that the terrible twos weren’t an issue for us. I may be rethinking that position… at least until the Sesame Street Police Department show up at my door with a restraining order for my daughter, the Elmo stalker.