The Anarchist, Half-Nelsons, and Me

A not-creepy "special surprise."
Yes, I know my sheets don't match my
duvet cover.

The Anarchist has always been...well...an anarchist. She's also always been a feisty little fighter. It's why she's still alive today, actually. So of course, we maybe encouraged this character trait in her just a teensy bit too much. She threw--oh, who am I kidding, throws--epic tantrums, often in public (usually in public). She lashes out physically when she's frustrated. She likes hip hop more than ballet. And she' recently taken up a brand new hobby. She calls the hobby, "I have a special surprise for you." It sounds like something a creepy guy in a windowless white van would play, but it's not creepy. It just hurts. A lot.

This photo got enough
"likes'" that I was
eventually freed.

 See, it started off as a "surprise" tackle hug every night after I blew her hair dry. It was kind of cute and delightful...until she wouldn't let me go. And lest you think I was just humoring her/playing along, consider this: The first night that "I have a special surprise for you" got serious, I had to use my foot to kick my phone up toward my hand (while she wasn't looking) so that I could text the Bureaucrat for help. He didn't see the text, but the Anarchist finally released me on the condition that a I post a photo of her triumph over me on social media and get enough "Likes" to satisfy her little ego. It was just good, wholesome fun, of course, but her super-human strength was a bit disconcerting ("My knee's on your chest. Do you really want to try to get up with my knee on your chest, Mama?"). 

So I decided to look up local girls' wrestling leagues. Turns out, they don't exist. Seems there's a low demand for places where delicate little girls can pin each other to the ground/exhibit their wiry strength. So "I have a special surprise for you" has become "I have a bad surprise for you," and now it sounds something like this (if this sounds familiar, it's because I posted it on Facebook a bit ago...although this time she wasn't holding me hostage while I did it):

Me (from beneath Aine, as she pins me to the ground): "We need to get you into wrestling."

Anarchist: "You're never gonna get up. Try.Just try. TRY! Also, what's wrestling?"

Me (putting forth a valiant effort at upending myself and getting nowhere): "Exactly what you're doing now. Pinning people down so they can't get up."

Anarchist (using her legs to hold me down): "Oh my GOSH! We need to get me to the nearest wrestling court FAST!"

Me: "Sure. Just let me up and I'll try to find a 'wrestling court' for you."

Anarchist (accidentally giving me a bloody lip): "NEVER! You'll NEVER GET UP! Hmm...but I think maybe I'm too sweet and too delicate to wrestle people, don't you?"

Yes baby. Too sweet. And too delicate. Like my lip. And all those ribs you almost broke.

My fragile flower. So sweet. So delicate.

Suffice it to say, if anyone knows of any local girls' "wrestling courts" please send their information my way. If I don't respond immediately, it's probably because she has me in a half-nelson, and I can't quite reach my phone. 

All in good fun, of course. (She's just so passionate).