Sleeping Cutey Was Sweet (Until I Read It)

I've never been a princess sort of chick. This is a shocking revelation, I know. I'm sure everyone pictures me sitting atop my throne adorned in a fluffy pink gown and adjusting my crown as I shout out blog posts to my man-servants. Sadly, I actually have to stoop to typing them myself, usually dressed in ratty old flannel pajamas. It's a sad, sad existence.

Because Karma works in amazing ways, I of course gave birth to one of those kids who would have a giant pink princess tutu surgically attached to her waist if she could find a doctor willing to perform the procedure. The kid eats, breaths, and sweats princess love. It's a sad, sad existence.

Because Karma is such a bitch, I have spent the past year or so fully immersed in the Princess Universe. We've got gowns. We've got dolls. We've got books.

Of course we have books. The Princess Wanna-Be is a giant bookworm.

Somewhere along the line, I bought this book:

I ain't gonna lie--I'd never read the story of Sleeping Beauty (also referred to as "Sleeping Cutey"--that's what Alexis calls it). I knew the premise, but I'd never actually read the words, nor had I seen the movie (I'm just full of shocking news tonight!).

Either this particular version of Sleeping Beauty is all sort of whacked, or the original story is all sorts of whacked. First you've got the king and queen selling their newborn off to the highest bidder. Sure! Why not arrange for your kid to get married just as soon as she's born? Make sure it's to a kid who is considerably older than her, and make sure she gets married the very second she's old enough to drive a car. Genius!

Then the whole curse thing goes down and the king and queen decide it makes sense to send the newborn off with a bunch of old cat ladies. OK, so I don't know if they fairies had 17 cats each, but I bet they did. I mean, they are old and single and living together and, well . . . LOOK AT THEM.

Meow.

Once the fairies kidnap the kid, the evil fairy starts talking to her pet raven. I support this subplot. It's never to early to teach kids that the Ravens are evil. (Please tell me at least one person gets that. Bueller? Baltimore? Ravens? Evil? Bueller?)

Blah, blah, blah. Sixteen years pass and somehow the prince and his arranged-bride-to-be manage to "accidentally" run into each other in the woods. He doesn't know her. She doesn't know him. She knows her fairy kidnappers don't think she should talk to strangers, so what does she do? She invites him to her house. Genius!

Can you see that? Those words? "But when the prince asked her name, Briar Rose remembered that the fairies had told her to never talk to strangers. When it was time for Briar Rose to go, she invited him to visit her cottage that evening."

I don't even know how the book ends. When I read those lines to Alexis, I had to start making crap up so that the moral of the story was to never-ever invite a boy to your house because really bad things involving violent toads and the maiming of Zac Efron will happen.

Remembering with Dance

I blog to remember.

I remember in those dizzying early days, when sleep was a luxury and the days were fuzzy with drunken exhaustion, I would lay on the couch with a newborn Alexis. She would be sprawled across my chest, content to cuddle as the two of us slipped in and out of consciousness. I remember how her soft, sweet-smelling little head fit so perfectly on my shoulder as her feet kicked me in the stomach, much as they had for the months leading up to her birth.

I remember months later flipping through channels on the TV and glancing down to notice that the child who had just moments before been twitching with the boundless energy only a one-year old can muster, was suddenly silent as she sat gazing intently at the women in the fancy dresses and the men in their ruffled, sheer shirts. Alexis watched as they spun and leaped and pranced, her eyes lighting up like a Christmas tree.

I will remember the moment it dawned on me that Alexis would probably like to watch that show again, now that she's older and wiser and most certainly a fan of dance. I will remember how she slid up on the couch, politely asked me to join her, and then snuggled in at my side, her little arms wrapped tightly around my right arm and her head resting peacefully at my side. I will remember how I decided that the moment was precious and perfect and needed as I cast aside all distractions and pulled my little girl into my arms so we could watch the show together. I will remember how her now bigger and definitely fuzzier head still fits perfectly on my shoulder, but how her legs have grown longer and how her kicks now graze my shins. I will remember the glimmer in her eye, the twinkle in her voice, and the joy in her face as she soaked in a full hour of cuddles while we sat on the couch together, watching Dancing with the Stars.

Yeah, it's a lame show, but I will remember it all.

Choreographed Heart Attacks

She can gracefully traverse a 6-inch wide balance beam. She can carefully hold ballet poses longer than many adults. She can balance precariously on her tip-toes while on top of the back of the couch. She cannot, however, stand still on a perfectly level and clean floor without wiping out in spectacular fashion.

Alexis is a klutz.

Thuds, smashes, booms, crashes, and smacks are just a part of life with the kid. In fact, she falls down so frequently that I long ago stopped bothering to ask if she was OK after she randomly kisses the floor. You can tell it's just par for the course because 99.9% of the time, she bounces back up and yells, "I OK!" You gotta love a kid that is so used to hearing words that she doesn't realize when you don't say them. In fact, sometimes she'll say, "I OK! Danks for askin!"

When I went all wild and crazy and bought the kid a 25 cent beach ball at Target (WOAH! Look at me being a big spender!), I knew the purchase would lead to moments severely lacking in grace. I correctly predicted that she would miss a few catches and wind up with the ball smacking her in the face. I knew she would fall flat on her butt chasing the ball around the house. And I knew the second I saw her decide it was a good idea to sit on the ball that she would wind up practicing for a future career as a stunt double.

Of course I was right.

Her genius brain decided to not only sit on the ball, but to try bouncing on it. Mr. Husband cautioned her to stop. I cautioned her to stop. We cautioned her to stop simultaneously. We've been through the routine before, so we knew she was going to wind up flying off of that ball, across the room, and flinging herself into a wall. It's just what she does.

Since she doesn't believe anyone when they tell her she's going to get hurt, Alexis chose to keep on with the bouncing on top of the beach ball. And then, as predicted, she managed to contort just right and launch herself across the room like a cannonball. Mr. Husband and I held our breath as she landed with a resounding *thud* on the bedroom floor.

Alexis looked dazed for a moment, then sprung up and said, "That was part of the plan," as she went back to using the beach ball as a trampoline.

The problem with that genius line is that it proves what I've feared all along: she is planning to send us to our graves early through carefully crafted, stress-inducing feats of hazardous chaos.