Believe me; my camera is the last thing I’m thinking about as I extract Olly from the latest peak he’s perched himself on.  All.  Day.  Long.

He climbs up the kitchen chairs onto the kitchen table.  And stands.  He finds stools and uses them to hoist up the pantry shelving like a ladder.  He’s on beds and couches and desks and chairs and stools of all shapes and sizes.  And in the toilet.  Then on top of the toilet, soaking wet.  And onto the bathroom vanity.

Sometime he positions toys to create a tower like structure.  And then he climbs it.  Into the window sill.  Until he begins to scream because all he can do is hug the hot glass until someone notices the new window decor and runs like mad to save his head from the tile floor below.

He needs sticky feet like the geckos on the other side of the glass.  At least they have grip.  All Olly’s got are sweaty palms.  And a propensity to get stuck in places only geckos could hold onto.

All my boys have been climbers.  None of them as committed as Olly.  Now, a quiet house is a house about to fall and a loud house means something has already happened.  The rare climb that does not defy his life immediately, I do try to catch on camera.  Just for the memory.  The memory of the crazy I’m currently living in.

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