I've often referred to Alexis as the "Tiny Terrorist." There really is no one else on this Earth who has better mastered the art of torturing me until the point of submission, and who can strike fear in my heart with just a few words. It seems that in the past 24 hours, she has decided to demonstrate her mastery of the terroristic toddler act.

It started in the wee hours of last night, a few hours after she first wandered (as usual) into our bed. She couldn't sleep and lay awake tossing and turning, crying and whining, kicking and shoving, and generally making sure that if she wasn't going to sleep, NOBODY was going to sleep. Between blows to my gut and the fistfuls of hair she ripped out of my head, I became submissive. To someone less than 1/4 my size. Really. If she had told me that I could go to sleep just as soon as I made out with Dora, I absolutely would have done it.

Desperation, yo.

Her mind games continued a few hours later when it was time to get her ready for school. Instead of our usual 30-minute wardrobe battle, I was greeted with, "I want to wear brown bird dress, please." Which was clean. And readily accessible. And totally weather appropriate. I'm sure that seems like she was actually being cooperative for the first time in eons, but I was sure it was a trick. It's been a long time since she quickly made a decision that actually made sense, so I truly believed that the second I dug out that dress she was going to rip my head off.

The torture continued a few hours later. I received a call from daycare that the Tiny Terrorist was threatening pukage. Shortely thereafter, she delivered the goods. So I picked her up and prepared for a day at home with a kid who could potentially blow chunks all over my face at any moment.

Talk about leaving in fear.

We battled through requests for yogurt. I seriously felt like her asking to drink some yogurt smoothie crap a mere hour after blowing chunks was like a terrorist asking for a box of bullets. There was a great debate about whether or not I should allow her to fill her belly, and I was right to be scared. I got to hang out with that yogurt twice. The actual process wasn't really that bad, but the anticipation leading to the moment? SCARY.

And so it went all day long. She insisting that she felt fine and was good to eat, and me not really sure whether to believer her or not. By the time Mr. Husband walked in the door (late because of the BEAUTIOUS snow), I was balled up in a corner, gently rocking back and forth.

I have been beaten by a Tiny Terrorist.

I am not proud.

(BTW, the Haiku Master DjLunchbox was crazy enough to let me scribble a few really bad haiku over at his place, and he even used some of my photos. Check it out, if you are so inclined.)