I love yard sales, baking pies with grandma’s apron all a-hug on hips, long flannel nightgowns and a warm mug of hot chocolate at midnight, tiny marshmallows afloat. I love station wagons from the 1950s, historic diners with a malt done right and the sound of music from my Victor Phonograph. And I totally agree each week when I hear it: I’m going to make a fabulous elderly lady.
So when I was asked exactly one year ago if I’d ever get the girls a trampoline I replied on par with senior paranoia, um, doesn’t it make home insurance go up and attribute to thousands of ER visits a year and attract rampant teens when homeowners are away?
So when a giant trampoline arrived by ferry from Santa’s aunts, uncles and grandparents I was a tad bit worried, paranoid and all the while focusing on how much our little ladies were going to bounce head over heels in love.
Once our trampoline stood tall its joy oozed magnetic.
Our daughters attraction to the best gift ever was similar to swarms of summer island bees adrift on acres of lavender.
All: watch this and look at this in collaboration, an occational collision and crying but mostly pure joy in wispy weightlessness and cloud-tapping attempts.
Crawling through the mesh door and onto the seeming center of zero gravity on our island felt fantastic.
My love melted into their joy as I jumped, slipper-clad in the cool winter air of a new year. Yup. It took about three minutes of jumping to feel it, so I closed my eyes and thanked Santa.
In periods of our day I can now slide open the window and let laughter float in, or peak out through the screen at the best daddy’s-home-from-work piggy back ride.
And in the stillness of an Indian summer’s full moon, I’ll see Daddy and his daughters lie taut in sleeping bags snuggled under the stars of trampoline’s sleepover.
I believe I’m beginning to act my age, and have a new crush on trampolines to thank.