Living on the edge

I am not adventurous. I’m pretty sure I was the only kid in my fourth grade class with the soul of a 42-year-old accountant. But my chickies like their adventures. Last summer, they tested me by climbing trees. This winter, they were doing flips on the guest bed (I put a stop to that one to avoid head and neck injury; did the five little monkeys teach them nothing?).

Some of their latest adventuring involves our new (to us, yay frugality!) van. It has automatic sliding doors. They discovered that you can have them start closing before you get out. So they stand, perched on the door frame. Then, they push the button to start the door closing and leap from the vehicle before the door closes on them (or touches them and invokes the safety features). They are like little Indiana Jones’s escaping the Temple of Doom. Except they don’t know who Indiana is, and they’re really not allowed to go adventuring in places called the Temple of Doom.

Do other people’s babies long to throw themselves into the face of danger?

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