Real Genius

Dear Oma and Tante,

I don’t mean to brag, but I may be a genius.

Seriously. A real genius.

This poster should say, "Linnea Heiny: Real Genius."

Consider the things I have done in the last THREE days.

1. When Mama heard the train and said, “There’s Thomas! Whoo-whoo!” I wiggled and moved my hands in circles like train wheels and said, “tchoo-tchoo?!” Brilliant, right?

2. I can cry and say, “Ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma ma.” Mama says I could be saying “Mama” or I could just be informing everyone that I’m mad. Isn’t it the same thing? This means I am a verbal genius, and will likely ace my SAT's.

3. Now when I make the sign for “ALL DONE,” I mean it! This means I am now fully bilingual.

4. When Sabrina climbs into Mama’s lap, I scream. Loud. It’s MY Mama, and I don’t intend to let that Big Sister take my Mama by adverse possession. This means I am now able to practice law.

5. I have a “Mr. Pointer.” Mr. Pointer is a magical thing. Does everyone have a Mr. Pointer? I think not, or the world would be a very happy place.

Mr. Pointer is good for getting things. I point to what I want and I grunt. If Mama doesn’t get it in one, I point again and shriek. Then Mama delivers what I want! This means I now have a magic wand.

I can also use Mr. Pointer to point out criminals and other mean people. For example, at gymnastics class I use it to point to my teacher, Miss Katelynn. Miss Katelynn is the rat who makes me do somersaults and hang from the bars and other kinds of abuse.

Last Saturday when Miss Katelynn came over to me, I hooked one arm around Mama’s neck, and used the other hand to point to Miss Katelynn. Then I gave Miss Katelynn a dirty look. Really dirty.

In my head I was saying, “J’accuse!” Mama must not have heard me, because she didn’t have Miss Katelynn arrested. I’ll try again next week.

Anyway, this means I am now a crime fighter.

At this rate, I may win the Nobel Prize before I turn four.

Love,
Little Nea

Guantanamo Bay, Here We Come

Dear Mr. Cheney,

I write to inform you of the newest and greatest method of interrogating Al-Qaeda suspects. Here's how it works:

1. Take one Linnea, one Sabrina, and one suspected terrorist. Put them in a room together.

2. Announce that it is quiet time for Sabrina and naptime for Linnea.

3. Send Sabrina upstairs for quiet time. Make sure she's tired and pissed-off at the world.

Hint: for full-effect, best to turn off Disney’s Princess Sing-A-Long DVD just prior to quiet time, but before the ladies of Mulan II have completed their world-famous performance of “I Want To Be Like Other Girls.”

4. Place Linnea in suspected terrorist's lap downstairs. Tell terrorist to rock baby Linnea to sleep.

5. Linnea will wiggle and repeatedly kick terrorist, drastically reducing his chances of ever having children.

Note: the weakest suspects will cave right here. Democrats and vegetarians, for instance.

6. A few minutes after Linnea falls asleep, and approximately 12 minutes into the 60-minute quiet time, Sabrina will yell from upstairs, "IS QUIET TIME OVER?"

7. Terrorist -- recognizing the folly of allowing Linnea to wake and repeat testicle-racking machinations, will try to say "NO!" loud enough for Sabrina to hear yet not so loud as to wake Linnea.

8. Approximately 12.3 minutes into quiet time, Sabrina will shout, "IS QUIET TIME OVER?"

9. See #7.

10. Approximately 12.6 minutes into quiet time, Sabrina will shriek, "IS QUIET TIME OVER?"

Note: suspects with fair-to-middling strength often cave at this point. Examples include libertarians, people who voted for Ross Perot, and woman who are convinced that Crocs are attractive footwear.

11. Approximately 13 minutes into quiet time, Sabrina will commence la pièce de résistance.

She will begin to scream. She will scream for approximately 30 minutes. This will feel like 3,587 minutes to the terrorist.

12. Six seconds into Sabrina's performance, Linnea will wake up and begin to wail. And kick.

13. Terrorist will hand over keys to the helicopter and a map to Osama bin Laden's lair.

See how easy? No water-boarding necessary.

Love,
Mama

Mama Mia!

Dear Oma,
Mama Mia! Tante and Mama watched the movie Mama Mia! and now we're all in trouble. Mama has been singing ABBA songs for days. Daddy is ready to go into hiding. You know how he feels about musicals. And ABBA.

Now Mama is changing the lyrics. This morning it happened to Super Trouper-- an otherwise perfectly fine song. But now, after one bad diaper, she sings to me:

Super Pooper
Wipes are gonna find you
So you won't feel blue
(Sup-p-per Poop-p-per)
When you take a poo
(Sup-p-per Poop-p-per)
'Cause somewhere in the poop there's you

Do you think maybe Sabrina got to her? Should we stage an I-N-T-E-R-V-E-N-T-I-O-N?

Love,
Little Nea

P.S. What's with the gold diapers? Are they available in my size?

What? Too much?