At least you’re not in a bounce house

Rory got a trampoline for Christmas. As an only child, this was a godsend. 

She’s already put in a good amount of mileage on it over the last week or so (yes, it took me a couple of weeks to work up the courage to erect it). 

Watching her on it is such a joy… I stand in the kitchen and look out at her bouncing up and down in her eccentric diorama of clothing (usually a combination of stripes, polka dots, and various animal print), long hair and arms flailing everywhere as she talks to the birds and waves at neighbors over our fence. 

I’ve even jumped with her a few times. No longer a spring chicken, I wasn’t sure what kinds of body parts I’d tweak, strain, or crack but I couldn’t resist. It’s been another way to bond with my daughter. I learn so many things about life from her. The other day, she said this between bounces trying not to lose her breath…  

“Thank goodness I’m not in a bounce house. Bounce houses smell like farts and sweat.”

I took note of that and now, I’m sharing it with you, dear reader… 

So, wherever you are right now, be thankful. Be thankful you’re not in a bounce house. Trapped in a hot, plastic prison cell of farts and sweat.   

Grace + Godspeed,