Katherine has, for some time, enjoyed climbing up on anything we’ll let her.
A week or two back, we started finding her sitting up in the second or third drawer of her dresser. That’s a good way to get Mommy and/or Daddy’s heart stopped.
And she’d been using the dresser drawers, and her potty seat, to hitch herself up so that she could poke her head out the window of her (second story) bedroom and peer out on the yard beneath. Or throw her toys out. (Said toys go out of circulation at that point.)
We have a lock on the window so that she can’t get her shoulders through, of course.
So this afternoon she’s being fussy upstairs, rather than take a nap. I’m working down in the breakfast room, and I hear a thumb. One stuffed animal has taken the plunge. Then another. Then another. Then I hear her wailing unhappily about something. I let this go on for a little bit, but finally step out onto the deck to pick up the toys, glance up …
… and she’s straddling her windowsill, sideways, one leg and one arm out the window. I don’t think she could actually get the rest of herself out the window, but I didn’t care to make that analysis at that moment. Instead, I bellowed something at her and went pounding upstairs at full tilt …
Well, I think I’ve convinced her of the error of her ways. And I narrowed the window opening a bit more. And moved the dresser.
Girl’s going to be the death of me.
My sister was a monkey. I mean it. At six months old, my mom left her in her playpen, on the front porch, for a second – to get another cup of tea. The elderly, shut in neighbor across the street called in hysterics – barely able to get words out – the baby the baby…
Mom went out to find the imp had climbed up the playpen, up the porch support and was stuck at the top of the scrollwork up under the aluminium awning.
Insane. And she *still* hasn’t stopped. (This is the kid that lives in California – the rest of us are content in Michigan – and is thinking about moving to Korea…)
Everybody thought we were freaks and abusers because she and her brother (1 year her senior) had little harnesses they wore in public that a leash clipped to (right behind the shoulder blades), and they each were ‘leashed.’ It kept them in sight and accounted for. That’s not abuse.
Abuse is the woman I watched walk by at festival on Sunday. Her little girl was whining about something, and in response, this kind and loving mother yanked her off her feet by her ponytail, drug her about 6 feet forward in the air, and then slammed her to her feet hissing “If you sont’ shut up, I’ll give you something to cry about…” Sweet Jesus. Anybody can be a mother. The kid was about eight, maybe 50 pounds or so…
Festival is ‘saving money’ this year, so we don’t have the state police presence on site this year. Boy, do I miss ’em.
Kitten was climbing out of her crib way early. We still have a lock on her door so that she doesn’t do herself harm in the middle of the night — though I suspect we’re going to have to change that particular policy sooner rather than later.
We used a “leash” on her, too, for a while. It came in very handy indeed.
About the mother you describe — well, I probably shouldn’t use the language here that I want to. My Mom reads this, you know. Though she’d probably agree with me.
Oh. My. God!