AITA for treating Daddy like my personal jungle gym when there’s a perfectly good one at the park?
By James “Monkey Grip” Chunkerson, Age 3 and Climbing.

Okay so look, yes—there is a jungle gym. It’s massive, colorful, architecturally sound. But you know what it doesn’t do?

Yell, “Ow, my spleen!” when I scale it.
Giggle uncontrollably when I shove my foot into its ear.
Hand me a snack mid-air while I’m dangling from a collarbone.

That’s Dad. The Deluxe Human Jungle Gym™.

He lays down on the carpet, unsuspecting. Rookie mistake. I pounce. One elbow to the sternum, one knee to the neck—he calls it “agony.” I call it bonding.

Sometimes he tries to redirect me.

“Buddy, why don’t we go climb the actual jungle gym outside?”
Nice try, Mr. Chair.

The outdoor gym is made of plastic. Daddy is made of love and questionable decisions. Plus, I’ve never fallen off Dad and gotten a splinter.

Mom says I should “give him a break,” especially after I parkour off his back at 6:45 AM. Jack calls me “the destroyer.” But tell me—if your jungle gym said, “Ow!” and then hugged you… wouldn’t you climb it forever?

So:
AITA for choosing my father’s body over a mass-produced playground?
No.
I am a toddler. My instincts are primal. My climbing is legendary.

And Daddy?
Daddy knew what he signed up for when he made the mistake of stretching near a toddler.