I'm about to remove all of the kitchen table's chairs and banish them to the basement. We'll just eat dinner standing up - not like I actually sit for all that long when I eat my meals anyway. They are chairs, they are not ladders for the kitchen island, they are not monkey bars, they are not step stools, they are chairs. For behinds. Not for feet.
Little miss monkey is giving me daily drills on how to quickly remove your hands from the raw chicken you are working with, race around the island, and save a small human before it has a chance to use the counter top as a high dive. I promise you, Dawn dish soap from the dispenser is not a liquid form of candy nor is it body lotion. Leave it alone. Get out of the sink. Get off the counter. Put that chair back!
Rinse. Repeat.
I'm sort of afraid to enroll her in gymnastics. I'm afraid the climbing will be further encouraged but this time with the flair of an attempted back tuck (good ol' back flip in layman's terms).
I hope this stage passes quickly or we might be ordering a helmet. Or perhaps a straight jacket.
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