For Reals?

Tziporah scares me.  It's like she's a grown-up actress, possibly of an alien species, housed in a two-year-old body.  And she's at an audition where the director has said, "Act like a two-year-old human girl."  Except that she's really over-doing it.  The whole two-year-old act is just over the top.  The possibly-alien-actress is not going to get the job because she's not believable.  She's overacting.

For example, a lot of her sentences end in, "EVER, EVER IN THE WORLD!!"  As in, "I don't want my shoes on, EVER, EVER IN THE WORLD!!"  Other times, she emphasizes her point with "I LOVE MAMA!!"  "I don't want a to go on a walk with you!  I LOVE MAMA!!"

She strides forward with a swagger that is much too confident for a tiny thing and utters phrases that a real two-year-old would never say.  Her sense of humor is too developed for someone her age, to the point where she understands and utilizes the courtesy laugh when something Scott says should be funny, but isn't, really.  Seriously, did you ever meet a patronizing two-year-old?  Even her courtesy laugh is too much of a guffaw to be believable.

This art project of hers is a big, glittery representation of her tendency toward superfluity.  The whole bottle of glue, all the yellow streamers, several flower petals and, as a finishing touch, the actual glue bottle and cap.  And this was before she poured the rest of the blue glitter on it.

Sometimes I get the eerie feeling that none of Tziporah's feelings are for real, hence the alien actress hunch.  When she cries, I think of the term "alligator tears."  She literally says, "Waah haaah haaah."  If you imitated a kid crying, you would sound like Tizzy.  She throws herself into these performances, waah-haaahing with abandon, escalating the volume, calling forth wet tears and blinking them away.  At the end of the performance, it's clear that the thing the tantrum was about is irrelevant, if not completely forgotten.  The important point is the satisfaction of a brilliant performance.

Same thing with the emotion we humans call "enthusiasm."  Tziporah will look at a worm on the sidewalk and clasp her hands together.  She'll shriek, "This is amaaaazing!  I can't believe it!  I just can't believe it, it's soooo amaaaazing!"

All I can think, looking at her golden locks and wide, blue eyes, is, "You cannot be for real."  I strongly suspect that Tziporah has taken the opportunity the last couple of dance classes to workshop her "clingy little girl who wants Mama" routine.  She is fine when I leave her all alone at the dance studio so I can pick up Ptolemy.  Then, midway through the class, it's time for Tziporah's solo, entitled, "I Want My Mommy, Boo Hoo."  She comes out of class with a pouty look, one finger in her mouth for that forlorn look, one tear teetering on the brink of her left eye.  She sobs, "I wanted you, Mom!"  And then she won't go back in.  I know for a fact that she is not scared, intimidated or lonely.  She has just decided that the dance studio is a poignant backdrop for her "song and dance," if you will.

The emotion Tziporah has been working on lately is "indignant."  Every day she adds more inflections and syllables to the two words, "But!  Mom!"  "Buuuuuut!  Mooooo-ooo-oooooom!"  "Let Rolayne have the blanket."  "Buuuuut!  Mooooooo-ooom!  I wanted the pink one!"  Very convincing.

Alright, my little alien.  You got the job.  You can drop the act.  We'll keep you.  We like your style.