The Social Climber

Unlike many folks, I did not resolve to go to the gym this year. I don’t have to. You know why? It’s not that I don’t need the cardio and toning — it’s that I can get it right here at home on a program called Chase the Climbing 18 Month-Old.

People have said to me, “Oh, yes, my Johnny climbed up some things at that age. I remember.” OK, that’s nice, but — with all due respect to Johnny — that’s not what I’m talking about. My first child was like Johnny. That’s just normal — and sanity-preserving. My daughter, on the other hand, has taken the climbing to a whole new level.  I’m not saying she’s particularly gifted; I’m just saying that if you’ve ever had A Climber, you know what I mean.  And you’re probably ready to loan me a helmet or full-room padding right now.  (Thank you, I’ll take both.)

We live in a house where anything that is considered stackable now has to be monitored at all times because my daughter, much like a mini-MacGyver, can fashion a few sturdy toys, a pile of diapers and simple pantry goods (like boxes of pasta or rice) into teetering, precarious climbing rigs. 

Don’t they have that same lust for danger in their eyes?  And not dissimilar haircuts. 

Skeptical of my second born’s climbing abilities?  It’s true, I have no action photos to demonstrate my point.  I’m too busy trying to intercept her falls and am not talented enough to get a good picture at the same time.  I could invite you over to see for yourself, but you’ll have nowhere to sit — because I am on the verge of removing all chairs from my home.  She stands on the chairs, lets go and looks me in the eye — while swaying — as if to say “Quick, catch me before I hit the ground.  I trust you.”  Sprinting, lunges and sweat ensue on my end.  See?  No gym necessary for me.

And what she has gained in climbing she has not lost in ground speed.  One moment, she’s standing next to me and, the next, sitting up on the kitchen table.  Last week, she attempted to scale the innards of the dishwasher, using the racks as her footholds.  And, for added effect, she grabbed a steak knife on the way up — just for laughs (which she promptly got out of my three year-old).

Me:  Sprinting, lunging, sweating, heart racing.  It’s like circuit training (I hear).  If I just put on a pair of those crazy Shape Up shoes, my workout will be complete.  I will be bikini-ready in no time, all accomplished within the comfort of my home.

Bookcases?  Perfect for scaling walls.  Dressers with the drawers pulled out?  She’s going right up.  It’s like living with Spiderman, and, I fear, quickly becoming as dangerous as the current Broadway production.

The next question is why she has not yet tried to climb out of her crib.  I don’t know.  Maybe she is having some mercy on her old mother (at times like this it’s obvious that becoming a parent in my early 20s would have been advantageous).  Anyway, it’s clearly just a matter of time, and I am stretching and warming up to prepare.