jumping

When I was growing up -- and I freely admit to a rather unconventional childhood in many, many ways -- my parents allowed my sibs and me a lot of freedom. We had a farm full of trees to climb, ponies to ride, and a pond to swim in. We jumped out of haylofts, read books on the roof, and slept on the front porch when it got too hot inside our un-air-conditioned (and mostly unheated - except for wood stove) old farmhouse. We had every kind of critter you could imagine, including horses, cows, pigs, snakes, dogs, rats, chickens, rabbits, and even an owl.

Think Pippi Longstocking.

But my parents did have three cardinal rules: no riding motorcycles (deadly); no chewing gum (tacky), and no jumping on trampolines (potential to become quadriplegic).

The trampoline rule was hard and fast. They weren't as popular in the 70s as they are now, but still, when my brother and sister and I occasionally encountered a trampoline, we would look on wistfully as other children hopped on. We weren't allowed.

My parents felt vindicated in their no-trampoline rule when my youngest cousin, Thomas, shattered his leg jumping on one when I was about 14 years old.

Anyway, fast forward 20 years and now I have three children begging for a trampoline.

"No, no, no," I said, remembering my own childhood prohibition.

But they kept asking, and recently, I jumped on a trampoline for the first time in years. It was at my cousin James' house and it was so much fun that I'm smiling just thinking about it.

So I did some research on trampoline safety and decided that maybe one would be okay. I ordered it on ebay, with all the safety stuff, and it arrived in huge boxes yesterday. The children are so excited and really, I am too. I can't wait to jump on it.

Now I need to find someone to help me put it together...