There was this one:
And then who could forget this classic, the one that made me fear I was raising a narcissistic egomaniac with little to no effort on my part:
As of this past August, there’s a new sign gracing her door. This one is a love note to her sister, her dad and me.
Some close-ups, just in case you’re anything like me and are squinting, wondering why I’m posting a Jackson Pollock painting on my blog because who the hell do I think I am, some big whoopity-doo, like an ar-tiste or something?
We were barred from her bedroom and Helena was especially specific as to the date the banishment went into effect.
As well as to its duration, lest we think her bout with fascism was temporary.
And just in case we thought the note did not pertain to us, Helena was kind enough to elaborate, specifying that only those under the age of thirteen would be permitted access into Helenaland.
Zoe complained and tried to make the case that perhaps Helena temporarily forgot that Zoe was fifteen and really meant to bar only Mom and Dad from her room, not her beloved sister. And after I asked Zoe what the color of the sky was in her world, I told her to quit her complaining since technically, she was still permitted entry into Helenaland because of her uncanny ability to morph into a two year old upon frequent occasion. And then I stamped my foot.
Maybe I’ll still be allowed entry too every now and then.
Just in case we didn’t understand what 13, 12, 11, 10, 9, 8, 7, 6, 5, 4, 3, 2 and 1 meant.
I do believe Helena has inherited a smidgen of my anal tendencies.
I am swelling with pride!
Or water retention.
It’s almost as if she’s daring us.
I’m visualizing a short, female Clint Eastwood wannabe with glasses, an overbite and an aversion to long division, snarling YOU’VE GOT TO ASK YOURSELF ONE QUESTION: DO I FEEL LUCKY?
WELL, DO YA, PUNK?
MAKE . MY. DAY.
Could that possibly be any more ominous? If we enter, there will be consequences.
I’m familiar with Helena’s consequences and if her current game of choice, How Many Times Can I Say CAN WE, MOM? CAN WE? CAN WE Before Mom Hangs Herself With Her Own Tongue is any indication, I do not want to get up close and personal with them again.
And there’s no way Zoe’s going to step even her little toe into Helena’s room because she knows all too well how hard it is to repair a reputation shattered by a little sister shrieking into the phone ZOE THINKS YOU’RE HOT!
I think Helena is going to be an artist when she grows up. Or maybe a graphic designer. Or an illustrator.
Or a gun wielding vigilante named Harry.
It’s too early to tell.