When Girl was a toddler, she preferred her two feet to be firmly planted on the ground. She found destruction at her eye level to be most enjoyable and much more of a surprise for me.
So it was incredibly disconcerting to me to watch Hurricane master his climbing skills on the beds, the table, my bar stools (which should be too high for him but whatever), and the Ikea corner shelving unit that seemed so useful at Ikea but we so don't have a corner to stick it in.
Still, none of that prepared me for this weekend. Saturday to be specific. Saturday I walked into his room knowing he had woken from his nap, fully prepared for a rousing game of Chase-Mommy-Around-the-Kitchen and Pinch-the-Nipples-Watch-Mommy-Cry! I was, instead, treated to the sight of the apple of my eye sitting in his dresser drawer. Pardon, his top dresser drawer. Yes. Well.
I tried my best not to faint (ha!) and instead removed his sturdy self from said drawer and firmly said 'No. Naughty.' Too which, he crumbled. And then naturally, so did I. He was so proud of his monkey-like ability and certainly I should find this skill useful! Perhaps when I throw my car keys on the rooftop in an effort to dislodge a Frisbee (give me a break. I was so wiped out and really, was it so much to ask the 5 year old neighbor boy to get his own damn Frisbee and while you're at it, I think Mr X perhaps left his hat up there and oh don't cry!). Surely then his shimmying up the rain spout would be a life saver. No?
Truly, it was the manner in which my would-be Everest toppler that had me proclaiming his genius status to the entire neighborhood (Please, they all think I'm crazy anyway so what difference could one more bout of insanity make?).
First, he had pulled out his bottom right drawer. Then his middle left, from there it was a simple matter to climb to the top.
Yes. Genius. Or more aptly, enfant terrible.
Since then he has happily displayed his ability to ascend every standing piece in the house.
His current favorite? The kitchen drawers. Even with the child safety locks (ha! They don't even slow him down. I'm the one who ends up pinching her fingers) it is a matter of mere seconds before his on top of the counter, merrily searching for cookies. Or french fries. Or whatever other assortment of goodies I seem to hide up there on those glorious counters he could never explore before.
I may not survive his childhood. He, no doubt, will be fine. But I think my heart will not handle so many of these ever increasing surprises.