I have become a rickshaw driver.

In my efforts to get in cycle training where I can (except you know, actually training, per se), I have purchased what is known colloquially as a "bike trailer," which I've used to tow my adoring two-year old around. The thought was that I could no longer use her existence as an excuse for not getting my arse in the saddle.

The reality is that my two-year old has become a slave driver. What started out to be sweet, simple rides to the park have quickly become forums for stinging criticism. "Faster!" she cries. I pedal harder, "Do again!" she snaps. If I sing? "No mommy! You no do dat!!" (To her credit, I am a horrible singer.)

If she sees something she likes, however, everything changes. Example: We pass a woman walking her new little puppy. Suddenly my miniature dictator is a simpering, sugary-sweet dollop of baby charm, her speech peppered with elongated syllables . "Awww, loooook at da puuuuuppy," she coos. "Hello puppy! Hello! Awww, mommmmmyyyyy, it's soooo cuuuuuute!" After we pass she sits in silent reverie for a moment. I pick up the pace, my body rocking back and forth with the pedaling motion. "STOP DAT!" she barks. Stinkyfina McCrabberton is back.

If I could hear her thoughts, I swear she would sound like Stewie from The Family Guy. Thank gawd her English is so underdeveloped.

Don't let the smile fool you. She's a killer.