She’s a diva. Oh, yeah.

You gotta believe it. Oh, yeah.

Her screams are loud. Oh, yeah.

I am not cowed. Oh, yeah.

Lest I continue with these song lyrics that might tempt Jay-Z to force me into a record contract, I shall pull the needle off the record and speak in plain English.

My low key, laid back, smiling one-year-old treasure of a little baby girl has turned into a diva.

The transformation is quite astonishing. I’m not complaining, because I do think it’s important for girls to be able to state their needs without an ounce of equivocation. I admire her gumption. But boy, does it make life tough.

For instance, she used to sit quietly in her high chair while I spoon fed her jarred baby food like sweet potato puree and green bean casserole. Now, she keeps her mouth tightly shut at the mere suggestion of food not handmade by me. And she flings every single piece of finger food – broccoli, cheese, chicken – off the highchair as if she’s J Lo tossing old Louboutins out of her American Idol trailer. “I shall not eat this,” her expression seems to say, “It is beneath me!  How dare you!”

And then she smiles graciously at her subject, like Queen Elizabeth I granting a pardon to Sir Walter Raleigh for only laying down his cloak once. “All is forgiven,” she seems to say, and I put her down for her nap.

She used to be easily distracted from whatever it was that caught her attention that I did not want her playing with. Like my cellphone. Now that I have a Crackberry (which is a whole other post…), I’m a little wary of her slathering her juicy saliva all over it. But instead of turning the other cheek as I take it away from her, she screams like Joan Collins reeling in shock after Crystal Carrington has just slapped her across the face in the Southfork foyer, and then arches her back like a giant hydra and crumples in a crying heap on the floor.

Is she tired, I think? Hungry? Eager to provide a solution to her intense distress, I prepare her bottle. She slurps it down, eyeing me out of the corner of her twinkling blue eyes. “I’ve really got this woman’s number,” she seems to say to herself as she starts pouring the last of her milk on the living room carpet.

I recently bought her new shoes made by Trumpette, that lovely company that makes those socks that look like ballet slippers. The shoes are gold. Lace-ups. Shoes for a diva in training. Or a miniature dancing monkey.  I’m realizing now, too late, that these gold accessories, have only fueled her transformation. Like Dorothy’s red slippers, transporting her home after a quick click of the heels, these gold shoes seem to say, “My mama has dressed me like a blingy princess, so that is exactly how I shalt behave.”

Now, back to my Crackberry. I have a very cute photo of little B I took that perfectly illustrates her new diva status. Once I figure out how to email it to myself, I will certainly post.

Until then, I shall return to my duties as diva handler. I shall also try to not obsess over why that woman down the hall from me at the Pratt library (where I sit and write this the moment) is making strange noises like a dog in heat. Seriously. I’m very confused.


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