Ellie discovered a hidden talent today. She picked up her Fisher Price camera with the rubber casing and asked me to sit on the couch for a photo shoot.

Ellie: Good evening Madame, (it was 8:30am) I am your photographess.

All these years I’ve just accepted the masculine ending to the word photographer. It took a four year old to shed some light on a rarely discussed yet important part of our language and the ongoing smear against women everywhere.

I’m ready my young photographeuse.

 I tried my best to sit still for the seventy-six picture flurry of clicks and flashes with a few too many closed lens issues to count, but I ended up getting a little perturbed. Perhaps because at the same time the photos were being snapped, we discovered Chloe’s super hero power was that she’s faster than the speed of clean and it was ridiculously frustrating.

I would insert her sorting blocks into the appropriately marked yellow triangle, purple rectangle and red square slots and she would toss the house with the blocks onto the carpet, scattering the blocks that ate Polly Pocket that loved the locket that fried the socket, that lived in the house mommy built.

Fielding questions like, “Mommy, do all regular people have purses?” and “Do you know what you get when you add a ‘b’ to the word ‘dodge’?”

Me: No

Ellie: Dodgeball.

Or how about when I smelled something foul and assumed Chloe had filled her diaper only to have Ellie laugh herself onto the floor and scream, “Mommy I farted! It was me! You thought Chloe pooped her diaper but it was me farting all along!”

Hilarious.

This after she told me I was getting under her nerves for not sitting still for her photo-shoot.

That bubble bath is looking better by the minute.