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She's Got Wheels and She Knows How to Use Them

I'm not exactly sure when it happened, but Alexis has figured out how to pedal a bike. By herself. Without help. Did I mention that she doesn't need me to help her? Yeah, so she doesn't need help. Anyway, at first I was all BOOOOOO! Quit growing up! But now I'm starting to see the silver lining on that funky little rain cloud.

Things Alexis can do now that she can ride a tricycle:

1. Run to the grocery store and buy her own damn fruit snacks. I'm bored of that chore.

2. Take herself to daycare in the morning. It's just across the street from our house. It shouldn't take her more than ten minutes to get there, just so long as she's able to make it up the really, really, really steep hill in between here and there. I might actually make it to work on time if I don't have to drop her off.

3. Chase the Bulldog until the pup is soooo tired she passes out in the driveway. That would keep her out of my bed, thereby granting me a few hours of peaceful sleep.

4. Hook herself up to a power generator and pedal her way to earning her keep around here. If she can generate enough electricity to power the TV, I'll consider turning on the Latina Whore a little more often.

5. Ride up the street and befriend the little punk that keeps throwing rocks in our Koi pond. Once she befriends him, Alexis can run his punk butt over with her fancy little tricycle. They won't press charges against a two-year old, especially if the kids were friends.

At least this growing up thing isn't ALL bad.


Already Bigger than a Chinese Gymnast

Mr. Husband is a very serious Olympics addict. Every two years, he parks his booty on the couch and watches every. single. moment of Olympics coverage. It doesn't matter if the event is Underwater Basket Weaving and the main contenders are from Liechtenstein and Montenegro, he's watching it. It makes him happy.

Alexis is a very serious Noggin addict. Every day, she parks her booty in her chair and harasses Mr. Husband until he converts into a human remote control and turns on Max and Ruby or whatever is on at the moment. It doesn't matter if the show is a mind-numbingly boring tale about a Latina Whore traversing a road, she's watching it. It makes her happy.

Put the two of them together and you have a recipe for LOTS of temper tantrums, not to mention how annoyed the Toddler gets when she doesn't get her way. It's really just OH! SO! FUN! for me.

Over the past few days, Mr. Husband has somehow won the vast majority of the battles for television supremacy. I may have had a little to do with his winning the battles, and not just because Hello, Mr. Phelps! I really would prefer that the kid didn't spend her day in daycare then come home and stand like a zombie in front of the TV. The adults can be zombies; she should color or play or harass me when she's not at school. Whatever.

Anyway, a few nights ago womens gymnastics came on while Alexis was happily coloring at her handy dandy craft table. She glanced up during the floor routine and was, quite simply, mesmerized. She put down the fat yellow crayon and stared and stared and stared as the girl ran and tumbled and jumped.

Alexis was clearly a fan. I don't know if the girl reminded her of Dora or what, but Alexis could not tear her eyes off the television screen.

And then suddenly she did.

Right before my eyes, the Toddler walked over to the rug in the middle of our wood floors and started doing somersaults. She? Was inspired. I? Was floored. And OH OH OH THE CUTE.

So cute.

Today I called and found a place that doesn't seem to take themselves too seriously and signed her up for gymnastics classes. I'm not sure how it is that Mr. Husband's Olympics obsession has turned into me giving up weekday coffee for the rest of the year, but whatever. Methinks the kid is a fan of the tumbling action and I'm willing to do what I need to for things to work with the old budget.

Psst, don't tell her that she can only grown another six inches and gain about ten pounds if she ever wants to be an Olympian. We don't want to crush her dreams, you know.


The One That is Probably Going to End in Me Getting My Crack Kicked

Oh, Wonderful Parents of Pittsburgh, we need to talk. You see, I've been noticing a pattern and it's really not pleasant. Maybe it happens everywhere, but I only have personally been affected by it here. People, you have GOT to quit letting your kids be crack addicts.

Here's the thing, I have, over the past 2 years or so, ended up with many, many photos containing crack. Not because I wanted them, but because there are far too many kids running around with their pants riding lower than Phelps swimsuit during that relay the other night. Recently I have downloaded photos to my trusty little laptop only to find that otherwise kick butt photos have been invaded by, well, BUTT.

Example #1:

I'm sorry if that is your kid, but I have at least ten photos of his crack. It was EVERYWHERE that day. I managed to walk away with a few decent shots despite the crack, but OYE THE CRACK. The thing is that the kid was wearing swim trunks that haven't fit him since he started walking. He couldn't button them. Heck, he couldn't zip them. The only thing holding those pants on was the fact that he was a boy. I SOOOO badly wanted to go buy the kid a pair of $5 swim trunks, if only so I could stop seeing his booty in all its glory.

I had let that little crack attack go, but then it happened again this past weekend. What was a really fun little photo op with the Toddler turned into a game of I See London, I See France, I See That Kid Ain't Wearing Underpants.

Seriously. Full moon. Despite the fact that Crackher scared the poop out of my kid and ruined every. single. photo I took for about ten minutes, I felt bad for her. There were no parents with her anywhere. Not at the seal statues, not at the leopard area, not at the front entrance. She was running around unparented. So while her crack is a serious issue, I suspect step one might just be for a parent to actually look at her. Maybe, just maybe, the crack attack would come to an end if they realized that she would need to gain 20 pounds for those shorts to fit.

I wish these were the only instances of crack in the Burgh that I have photos of, but they are not. They are just the only ones from the past month. So, Pittsburgh Parents, please help me out. Cover those cracks.

Thank you.