These legs were made for climbing.

My boys are climbers.  

 

They are ALWAYS climbing on something.  Toys, furniture, people ... 

... the sand table, kitchen chairs ...

 

... the train table {always}, the workbench ... 

... chairs to reach the Christmas tree, the kitchen table ... 

... and of course, Kiernan's favorite, the computer desk.

Usually it's Kiernan that does the majority of the climbing to high places, but yesterday I went to put something in my bedroom for 30 seconds and came back to find this:  

Yep, that's Mr. Beckett.  Looking mighty smug too, isn't he?  And then, a short 10 minutes later I went to change laundry and came back to find this:

Done.  I've done just about all I can do to prevent them from climbing, short of removing all furniture from my house.  Things are about as secured and baby-proofed as they can get, and the things that aren't are on a honey-do-this-shit-RIGHTNOW list.  There is no more chair at my computer desk (during the day).  There are no more bar stools at my kitchen island.  There are baby gates sprinkles everywhere and all cabinets require a Masters' degree and a tool kit to be able to open them (which explains why sometimes I can't).  But friends, I'm not getting rid of my kitchen table.  No more kitchen chairs allowed near the table during the day, except for their high chairs, which they haven't managed to climb into yet.  

So today was going swimmingly without worrying about my offspring falling off of my kitchen table and smashing their heads on the tile floor.  At lunch the twins finished up before Brennan (as always, because he inherited his Dad's SLOWEST EATER ON THE FACE OF THE PLANET gene) and they were playing when Brennan declared that he had to poop and needed my help (let's be honest, 3 year olds are terrible wipers).  So off we went to the bathroom and when we came back out, I saw this:

Oh you know, just Kiernan finishing up the remainder of Brennan's lunch while squatting like a native in the brush.  Cuz there's mac'n'cheese in the brush.  What brush?  Jesus, I'm tired.  Anyways, I made a mental note to be sure to clear the area of all chairs before ever leaving the table again as I scooped him off the table, brains intact.  

Later on, I walked into the playroom to find this:

Mr. Beckett, perched in the train table drawer.  He loves to do this and it always made me twitchy until I realized that if that drawer breaks or he falls out, it's an 18 inch drop onto carpet.  I don't have the energy to fight this battle with him when I'm busy trying to make sure that he and his partner in crime don't bash their brains on the tile.  

So instead of pulling him out of there for the 6579th time today, I quit.  I gave in.  Waved the white flag.  You win, Mr. Beckett.  You go ahead and sit in that little drawer.  I'll kiss your boo-boos when/if you fall.  But that stunt you like to pull where you try to sit on the back of the couch, hovering 3 feet over the tile floor, and grinning at me like you can see the gray hairs sprouting from my head?  That's one I'm not giving up on.