Climber!

Punk has officially turned in a deranged spider monkey on crack.
Yep, she's a climber.
Couches, chairs, you name it. She climbs it.
We found her straddling the side of her playpen watching TV the other day.
So far, fortunately, she still hasn't master crib climbing, but I know it won't be long.
She digs her mutant monkey toes into the furniture and hauls herself up. She throws her sippie, snack, or toys up ahead of her. I think she's having her bear do reconnaissance.
She also demands that we pick her up, crying "Uh! Uh! Uh!" while waving her hand imperiously for us to grab.
And if you dare utter the word no, if it even starts to leave our mouths, she melts. Her lower lip pooches, her eyes fill with tears, and she shrieks so high pitched and loud the windows shake and the cats scurry for cover.
She loves to climb our couch and lean over it smiling at you, happy as she can be. Then she plops down so close to the edge that I'm diving to prevent her from falling, all the while, she crows with delight.
I love her new found independence, but I think she's a baby daredevil. I know she has no fear. I know she's gonna get hurt. And I know she'll cry, get up, and do it again.
And, it's times like these when I recognize myself in my daughter. It's not enough that she is a mini me. It's not enough that she has my temper. I just know I'll be watching her climb trees in a skirt or run with the boys, all the while I'm wishing she would just be a sweet little girl, not such a tomboy.
And I know how my mom must have felt.