Tizzy's always been a climber.
Once, when he was two, I discovered him balancing on a broom stick that was propped precariously up against the highchair, arms outstretched like a circus performer making his way across a tightrope.
That's why it came as no surprise this morning when I found him perched on top of the bookcase, limbs dangling loosely over it's side.
"This is very dange-urse." He announced, as I walked through the door.
"Yes, yes it is." I replied nonchalantly.
"I think you should get me down from here."
"No, not today."
"Mama, you can't leave me here! It's mischief... you should get me down."
"Mischief you got into. You get yourself down."
There was a short pause as he thought about this. I went about my business.
"I said it's Dange-urse." He repeated.
"I'm sure it is." I replied, sorting the bills.
"How'm I gonna get down from here?!"
"Probably the same way you got up."
"Mama, my legs are not big - not yet." He proved this by stretching them out towards me, flexing his toes just to make sure I could see how far they were from the floor.
"That's a shame. It's going to be quite a while before they're long enough to reach the ground." I added. "Better try and figure out another way down."
Then I left the room - because I was getting stuff done."
Just as I was getting used to the freedom of having one less child wrapped around my ankle, he carefully stretched his little leg out as far as it would take him and tippy-toed himself onto the trunk below, then jumped down onto to the floor.
It was good while it lasted.