“Let’s get an ice cream.”

“Can I get two scoops?”

“One’s good.”

“Then rainbow sprinkles.”

“The ice cream’s so delicious, it tastes perfect on its own.”

“A waffle cone would be extra perfect.”

Ever have conversations like this? You start out with a good, simple idea. Then, the scope increases. More scoops. Sprinkles. A cone upgrade. My husband and I call this kind of conversation with our kids “scope creep.” He and I both have our own businesses, and part of our work is helping clients stay true to their budgets and schedules. Some job skills come in handy at home.

In my architecture practice, I encounter homeowners who pressure themselves to get everything exactly right the first time. They fear having to redo a kitchen or a bath later. So the small, shower-only bathroom we originally designed bumps out to include a tub. (They may have children one day). This may be their only construction project ever, and they want to be smart about it. I completely understand the dilemma. But add up enough of tweaks, and the scope and expense might grow the project out of reach.

With children, time can creep out, too. Another word for this is stalling.

“Can we have circle time and read a book after dinner?”

“Sure, we can do that for ten minutes and then go up for baths and bed.”

“Great, I’ll read a book, then we’ll get the alphabet ball and play Roll, Bounce or Kerplunk.”

“We’ll have the right amount of time for the book or the ball game.”

“It’s a short book.”

“So you’re choosing to read?”

“And do Roll, Bounce, and Kerplunk.”

I picture a shuffle board covered with numbers. The wood paddle pushes the puck. We move the disk around until it lands on the right figure. It’s a slick discussion, and I try to stay positive, to keep my boundaries and patience between the lines. I know that before I tug the pull-chain on the bedside lamp and kiss foreheads goodnight, there will be more scope and accompanying attempts to grow it. I am the children’s timekeeper. When they yawn, I’ll forgo explaining the physics of lava flow til morning. But one more hug before I turn on the night light? I embrace this sweetest of creeps.

Philippe Petit’s tightrope stretches between two books in our house:  The Man Who Walked Between the Towers and Let the Great World Spin. I was expecting him in the first book, but not in the second. By the button-light of my alarm clock, he appeared on the pages of Colum McCann’s novel when everyone else was asleep.  At 2 am in 2012 to me, Petit was in the Catskills in 1974, where in the warm months he trained for his World Trade Center walk.  One day in winter, he returned to the field alone to visit the cable. He couldn’t resist the pristine plane of snow. He jumped. His body punctured the deep white and was suspended up to the armpits–trapped in a frozen cell tailored-made for him. His shirt pulled up with the snow, exposing his skin. Ice water filled his boots. The sun began to drop into night.

He wanted to be seen. Not in the snow, but between the towers. From below, from above. A dot.

We have line walkers at our house. I hear the squeak of scotch tape lifting off the roll. Later, opening a window, I see a message taped to the wall. Lines drawn hard, a furrowed brow. A tagger deep in the subway. A skywriter. I was here. See me.