So, the other day she was doing new combinations of ballet moves around the living room, interspersed with playing the waltz from Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty on both the piano and the recorder. And she was attacking me with the occasional sudden hug. And she was wiggling around doing something over by the dining room table—I forget what.
"Mom," she said, "I'm a hyperactivist."
I'm ready to take up the cause.