At the Top of the To Do List

Summer is almost over. I can't even begin to wrap my brain around that fact, which is good because thinking about it makes me a little sad.

For the first 3 years of her life, Alexis had it good. We routinely visited some of Pittsburgh's best places to be . . . places like the Children's Museum, the Zoo, Phipps Conservatory, the Carnegie Museums, etc. But then we bought a new house, a beat-up foreclosure to be exact, and it all came to a crashing halt. Gone were the free weekends. They had been filled with long lists of things that needed to be done, and wallets had to be closed as we sought to pay for those projects.

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The End of a Fabulous Era

It's really weird how it completely defies the laws of genetics, but somehow I ended up with a kid who is really very good at arguing, and even better at finagling a conversation so as to get her way and yet avoid an argument. It's shocking that she would be that way. SHOCKING.

Ahem.

For example, it was seventeen years past bedtime, but for some reason Alexis thought she could negotiate her way into sitting up a little longer. I had just flipped on the TV as Mr. Husband started to take her upstairs. Instead of following him like the good little minion she sometimes plays on this blog, she tried to snuggle up on the couch with me.

"What do you think you're doing?" I asked her.

"I want to watch the game," she replied. Our television somehow magically finds its way to ESPN every single time it is turned on, and I had yet to have corrected that epic travesty.

"What game?" I asked.

"The baseball game," she replied as she stared at the screen, absolutely appearing as if she actually cared about the little league playoffs or whatever was on.

I smelled a lie, so I continued my questioning, "Who's playing?" I asked. I assumed she would list the only baseball team she knows (the Pirates--and OMG! How sad is it that the only team she knows sucks that hard? UGH.) and then try to make something up.

"He's playing," she nonchalantly replied as she pointed to a little boy on the TV screen. She continued staring at the TV, as if she knew who the boy was and had a vested interest in his success.

No straight out defiance goes on with her, just a little careful meandering between the side of good and bad. She can contort any sort of conversation and make herself come out smelling like roses, if she sets her mind to it.

And THAT is why it comes in handy to know her kryptonite. For a long time, it was birds. She hated birds. HATE HATE HATE. We once spent several days of a Disney vacation telling her that if she didn't hold hands nicely and walk like a normal human being, the birds would attack her. She believed every word of our lies and fully complied.

Other times we have forced her into submission by telling her that we would go buy a pet bird. For a while we told tales of getting a yellow bird named Petey living to in the room across the hall from her bedroom. It was the perfect place for him to keep an eye on her and make sure she stayed in her room at night. That little trick actually worked for a while, shockingly enough.

As she and I sat on the couch, I started to reach into my pocket and grab a piece of that kryptonite. Conveniently enough, we had spotted a baby bird in the rose bush just outside our front door one day earlier so I began to threaten the little insomniac with the bush-dwelling bird. I started to say that he must have been watching to make sure she was listening to her mother. I almost told her I was going to open the door and see if he had any thoughts about her watching the game.

And then I remembered something.

SON OF A HORNLESS UNICORN, she's not scared of birds anymore. A year ago she would have preferred to pluck out her eyeballs and stick them in a running garbage disposal than sit that close to a bird.

When the hell did that happen? And now what am I going to use as her kryptonite?

I'm Worn Out Just From Watching Her

As we sat on the stoop after a very long day of running errands, all I could think about was how I was ready for bed at that very moment. I swear early bedtimes are wasted on the young.

As if to prove my point, Alexis was dancing and squealing and running and generally acting like a fool hopped up on caffeine and sugar and maybe a few dozen happy pills. It was an hour before she was supposed to go to bed, so each time she leapt into the air and did a triple back flip mixed with some karate moves, I cringed. I was worried that she wouldn't be able to fall asleep. When Alexis has trouble falling asleep, momma has trouble falling asleep. And loses her mind.

I decided my best option was to try to wear her little butt out. I suggested a bike ride around the neighborhood, and sold the idea with promises of unicorns and glitter and shiny things.

Alexis fell for it. Moments later, she sat in our driveway wearing her ridiculous bicycle helmet (we bought it when she was one--I think she's due for a new one that is a little less pink bunny-filled and that, you know, actually fits her big noggin), seated atop her long-ago-too-small-tricycle. While she's a pro at riding her Big Girl Bike all around my kitchen and dining room, she won't ride it outside. She says that it's because of something to do with stopping and Meg, which I think means she hasn't learned to stop on her bike unless there is a Bulldog for her to run into.

We started on our way and I purposely selected a route that was about a mile long. Even if the kid couldn't finish the whole mile pedaling and ramming her knees into the handlebars, I knew I could pick up her slack. Or her and the trike. Whichever. Regardless, I just wanted her to be exhausted.

As we started up the first of several big hills, Alexis began to tell me that she had lots of energy in her belly.

"NO KIDDING," I thought. I was intentionally not helping her get up the hill, just waiting for her to start complaining that she couldn't pedal any further. But she did. And then up another hill, and another.

As we finally started rounding the last curve, Alexis began to show signs of being human after all. She said she needed more energy and that she was starting to get a bit tired. She stopped the trike, slid off the seat, and then proceeded to do 20 jumping jacks.

 

She declared herself ready, hopped back on the bike, and pedaled another 100 feet or so. Then she said it was time for more jumping jacks. That time she did 50 OF THEM.

"We should have named you Jillian Michaels," I told Alexis.

She didn't hear me. She was too busy running laps around me.