Life is not a Choose Your Own Adventure book. Life is a Choose Your Own Interpretation book.

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As she moves closer and closer to Five, she finds new ways to get under my skin.

The fidgeting and the jumping and the running have driven me to the brink of desperation, so I seek out ways for her to burn off some energy.

I decide to let her wander around the city.

At first she is hesistant to give up her post as human leech, but then she spots opportunities to get into trouble.

With a grin, she belts out, "I LOVE PITTSBURGH!" just before she runs off to see what she can destroy.

Is it genetic? Or is she just a case of spontaneous mischief? Why can't she just listen when I tell her to quit causing trouble?

She doesn't care. All she knows is that there is an ice rink RIGHT THERE and she wants to skate.

We have arrived at the rink unprepared, so I promise her that we will return another day to skate. For now, we'll just have to explore what's around the ice.

She whines before getting distracted by the plethora of Winter Classic marketing materials that have thrown up all over the city.

She couldn't sit quiet and still if her life depended on it, so she starts running around like a wild animal.

She begins to dance, an awkward, stupid dance that shows all the money we've spent on dance classes has been wasted.

People stop what they are doing to watch her, probably wondering why I can't control my child.

She pays them no mind, instead pausing to fuss at a button on her sweater. She should be wearing a coat. It is, after all, January, but I grew tired of fighting with her.

In a blink, the moment of calm is gone and she is off running, seeking more ways to irritate me.

She finds a bench and declares it her stage, recklessly climbing aboard so she can dance like a drunken college student.

She wiggles and shakes, clearly enjoying the little spotlight she has cast on herself. She grins at strangers who have stopped to watch her show, even posing as one photographs her. She is an attention whore.

"I'm Four," she tells the woman with the blue coat.

"You'll be lucky to make it to Five," I think.

She finishes her performance with a flourish, a giant leap and a "TA-DAAAH!" off the bench. It's a wonder she doesn't break anything.

And she's done. She starts to whine and cry that she's hungry. It's not a surprise since she was too busy talking to eat her lunch earlier in the day.

"Can I take one more picture?" I ask. I'm hoping she'll stand nicely for once, given that every photograph so far has captured her behaving wildly.

She obliges, but then ruins the photo with her wild arms.

Off we go, hand-in-hand so she doesn't run in traffic. She still doesn't stop talking long enough for my headache to go away.