It's Been A Long Time Since I Last Mentioned Smurf Testicles

It wasn't my idea, but I did think it was a good one. When Alexis' grandma called to ask if she would like a pottery kit for Christmas, of course I said yes. It sounded like the exact sort of project we like to work on during the week.

I. Am. An. IDIOT.

Evidence:

1. When the directions said "Start with a softball-sized piece of clay" they really meant "Picture a Smurf. Picture the size softball a Smurf would throw at Gargamel. Divide that by two, subtract a Smurf testicle, add in a Smurfette brain, and then you'll have the right amount of clay."

1a. If you don't know who Gargamel is, GET OFF MY LAWN.

2. The girl on the box? She's a liar and a cheat. By the time I got around to spinning the pottery wheel thingy (technical term), there was no smiling. There was no pristine clothing. There was no neat, clean pottery wheel. There was clay on the ceiling, clay on the floor, clay all over me, and DEFINITELY NO SMILING.  Even Alexis was all, "Uh, this can't be right."

3. Despite the fact that I was covered in clay and looked more like Demi Moore than I ever have in my entire life, the ghost of Patrick Swayze did not materialize in my kitchen. NOT FAIR.

4. While I was busy looking for Patrick Swayze, Alexis gave up on the pottery making chaos. She decided she would rather color than spend another second with me. She might have mentioned something about "crazy" and "dirty." I'm not entirely sure; I was busy looking for Patrick.

5. Two hours, two Smurf-softballs-halved-minus-a-testicle-plus-a-Smurfette-brain-sized clumps of clay, half a roll of paper towels, and a partridge in a pear tree later, all I had to show for my efforts was this:

That doesn't seem right.

6. SHE IS A LIAR:

The smirk mocks me. The sparkling white apron mocks me. The perfectly shaped pot mocks me.

I'm going to spend the entire weekend trying this little pottery project all over again. Either I'll wind up with a masterpiece, or I'll figure out a way to wipe the smirk off that kid's face.

Another Way Of Looking At It

Life is not a Choose Your Own Adventure book. Life is a Choose Your Own Interpretation book.

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As she moves closer and closer to Five, she finds new ways to get under my skin.

The fidgeting and the jumping and the running have driven me to the brink of desperation, so I seek out ways for her to burn off some energy.

I decide to let her wander around the city.

At first she is hesistant to give up her post as human leech, but then she spots opportunities to get into trouble.

With a grin, she belts out, "I LOVE PITTSBURGH!" just before she runs off to see what she can destroy.

Is it genetic? Or is she just a case of spontaneous mischief? Why can't she just listen when I tell her to quit causing trouble?

She doesn't care. All she knows is that there is an ice rink RIGHT THERE and she wants to skate.

We have arrived at the rink unprepared, so I promise her that we will return another day to skate. For now, we'll just have to explore what's around the ice.

She whines before getting distracted by the plethora of Winter Classic marketing materials that have thrown up all over the city.

She couldn't sit quiet and still if her life depended on it, so she starts running around like a wild animal.

She begins to dance, an awkward, stupid dance that shows all the money we've spent on dance classes has been wasted.

People stop what they are doing to watch her, probably wondering why I can't control my child.

She pays them no mind, instead pausing to fuss at a button on her sweater. She should be wearing a coat. It is, after all, January, but I grew tired of fighting with her.

In a blink, the moment of calm is gone and she is off running, seeking more ways to irritate me.

She finds a bench and declares it her stage, recklessly climbing aboard so she can dance like a drunken college student.

She wiggles and shakes, clearly enjoying the little spotlight she has cast on herself. She grins at strangers who have stopped to watch her show, even posing as one photographs her. She is an attention whore.

"I'm Four," she tells the woman with the blue coat.

"You'll be lucky to make it to Five," I think.

She finishes her performance with a flourish, a giant leap and a "TA-DAAAH!" off the bench. It's a wonder she doesn't break anything.

And she's done. She starts to whine and cry that she's hungry. It's not a surprise since she was too busy talking to eat her lunch earlier in the day.

"Can I take one more picture?" I ask. I'm hoping she'll stand nicely for once, given that every photograph so far has captured her behaving wildly.

She obliges, but then ruins the photo with her wild arms.

Off we go, hand-in-hand so she doesn't run in traffic. She still doesn't stop talking long enough for my headache to go away.

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Life is not a Choose Your Adventure book. Life is a Choose Your Own Interpretation book. I choose this version to be my life.

Oh, Pittsburgh.

As she moves closer and closer to Five, I loosen my grip on the chains that hold her close to me.

A dose of common sense has settled under her skin, and with it comes a healthy fear of cars and the understanding that wandering too far would be problematic.

So, I let her freely explore as I stand back and watch.

At first she doesn't know where to start her adventure as she is overwhelmed by all of the sights and sounds that envelop her.

Then, with a grin, she belts out, "I LOVE PITTSBURGH!" She stretches her arms out wide and gives her city a hug.

Is it genetic? Or does her love of the city that holds my heart come from experience? Is it that it's inevitable to love Pittsburgh once you've set eyes on it and allowed it into your soul?

She doesn't care. All she knows is that there is an ice rink RIGHT THERE and she wants to skate.

We have arrived at the rink unprepared, so I promise her that we will return another day to skate. For now, we'll just have to explore what's around the ice.

She is unfazed by the restriction as there is a plethora of sights and sounds and things to love. And, "LOOK! PENGUINS!" she declares before darting off to another part of the square.

Her heart is a song, music courses through her veins, and in that moment of silence and freedom, she lets the rhythm of her soul take over. Right then, right there, she breaks into dance.

Wild, reckless, uninhibited dance.

People stop what they are doing to watch her, perhaps admiring her freedom and awkward beauty.

She pays them no mind, instead pausing to fuss at a button on her sweater.

In a blink, the moment of calm is gone and she is off running, chasing new heights.

She finds a bench and declares it her stage, once again resuming her wild and crazy dance.

She wiggles and shakes, clearly enjoying the little spotlight she has cast on herself. She grins at strangers who have stopped to watch her show, even posing as one photographs her.

"I'm Four," she tells the woman with the blue coat.

"Not for long, my dear, not for long," I think.

She finishes her performance with a flourish, a giant leap and a "TA-DAAAH!" off the bench.

And she's done. She has worked up an appetite and says her belly thinks dinner needs to happen RIGHT NOW.

"Can I take one more picture?" I ask. I want to remember that I was here, too.

She obliges with a flourish.

And off we go, hand-in-hand, breathlessly talking about the city we love.