Justifying a Future Purchase FOR REALS

As many astute people noticed yesterday, bike time for Alexis is a bit like the Princess going for a leisurely ride in her chariot. As her trusty steed Mr. Husband drags her around, she puts her feet up, sips a little premium beverage, reads a book or two or ten, and is always accompanied by at least one of her best friends. Of course Alexis is a demanding Princess and requires just the right books, just the right water vessel, and as a safety-minded sort of Toddler, she insists that Baby Shell not just accompany her, but that she do so while seat-belted into the chariot. It is The Law.

This evening was no different. As we rolled down the bike trail, Alexis jibber-jabbered to her Baby Shell, all comfy and cozy in her chariot. As we hit the home stretch, nearly back to the car, Mr. Husband and his Princess were well in front of me as my bike has suddenly caught a case of The Stupids. I don't really know what its major malfunction was, but the chain kept slipping causing my feet to suddenly lunge off the pedals. Since I don't really think a face plant into concrete would improve my appearance, I opted to slow down and try to be careful.

I am officially extremely grateful that my bike caught The Stupids. If it hadn't? I totally would have missed an exchange by two people who were lounging around on the trail (OF COURSE they weren't walking. Why would anyone WALK on a bike/hike trail?). As I slowly rolled past them, I heard the two women disagreeing.

"Did you see those two babies in that cart?" one woman asked.

Her companion replied, "That wasn't two babies, that was a baby and a doll."

"No, that was two babies."

It was the Toddler and her doll, but you just KNOW I was totally laughing that somebody thought Baby Shell was a real kid. That, my friends, is absolute proof that I need to buy a scary doll.

Nothing Here to See, Feel Free to Move

For as long as Alexis can possibly remember, we have made it a habit to go for a nice long (as in 9 miles) bike ride. Three times a week whenever the weather permits, we load up the truck and drive over to a bike trail for a little "family time." Except, it's not so much "family time" as it is an exercise in how differently Mr. Husband and I view exercise.

Mr. Husband is hard-core when it comes to working out. He works out at least five days per week and very truly believes in the mantra No Pain, No Gain. So his idea of a bike ride is to pedal as fast as possible in hopes of feeling the burn.

I am very hard-core when it comes to avoiding working out. Sure, I love playing sports, but if I'm not having fun, I just ain't doing it. You will never catch me running a marathon because I see nothing fun about running when a car can get me there much faster thankyouverymuch.

Somehow we both manage to get our way, thanks to the giant signs that hangs at each entrance to the trail. they says, "Stupid People Congregate Here." No really, IT MUST. I don't understand the phenomenon, but dozens and dozens of Pittsburgh's dumbest drive to that trail and then stand around chatting with one another. We've already established that I'm not the biggest fan of exercise, but I do believe that if I'm going to take the time to drive to a trail that is specifically for walking and bike riding, I sure as heck am going to do one of those two things.

The good news about the fact that people stand around all over the trail like a bunch of pins just waiting to be bowled over is that Mr. Husband gets slowed down. The bad news is that one of these days, one of us really is going to score that strike and somebody is going to get bowled over. I can't even begin to count the number of times that someone has suddenly stepped in front of my bike and nearly killed us both. Under most circumstances I'm more of a "Save yourself, I'll be OK" kind of person, but if you step out in front of my very fast moving bike? I'm totally taking you out with me. No. doubt. about. it.

The biggest challenge in the whole thing is making sure that the Toddler walks away having learned the right lessons. We hope that she will learn to love outdoor activities, will see exercise as fun, and won't learn too many cusses. Unless, of course, she wants to start screaming, "Get the (*&^ out of the way, you (^*&%&#$%& &^% %^&*$ %&**." I fully support her in any such endeavors.

(2006)

(2007)

(2008)

Sweetly Sympathetic

Lately it seems that Alexis has been almost desperate for a pacifier. She's been crying, whining, searching, and longing for a beloved "binky." Each time she's gone on a tiny tirade, I've found it to be very VERY odd. She gave up the goods well over a year ago. While she didn't do it in a manner that could be called willingly, she survived and no one was injured. There are currently none in the house (as far as I know--those darn things breed like rabbits, though, so I expect to find them under the couch and in closets when we finally move in a bazillion years). For months now, I haven't been able to figure out why she suddenly was in desperate need of something that she hadn't cared about for so long.

In contrast to Alexis giving up paci without too much of a fight (there is a very good chance that I have just blocked the drama, just so we're clear), there is a little boy in daycare who is a few months younger than Alexis and has been fighting the war kicking, screaming, and with more dramatic flair than a bald umbrella-carrying Britney Spears. There have been several mornings that I've walked into daycare and have seen him standing in the middle of the room in the midst of a Category 5 meltdown. He's been fighting the war with dedication for weeks already, to the point that I wouldn't be totally shocked if he still is sucking on a pacifier when he gets his driver's license. He. wants. his. binky.

On Friday, Alexis and I were wandering through Wal-Mart (Side note--Dear Target, please open a store closer to my house. Love ya! Thanks.). As we took a quick glance at some clearance junk in the baby department, Alexis started in with the binky pleading.

"I want binky," she said.

"No," I replied.

She retorted, "I WANT PURPLE BINKY!"

A meltdown appeared to be just around the corner. In a rare and random moment of genius, it dawned on me that I should just ask her why shy wanted the stupid binky.

"(Insert little boy's name) needs a binky!"

What charges would be filed if we aided and abetted a pacifier addiction?