How high we’ll jump for our children
We all seem to have these moments. The ones in which we’re forced to sideline ourselves — to accept that perhaps our abilities have changed. Instances in which we finally mutter, “You know, I’m too old for this.”
Saturday was our friend Eric’s birthday. Between the group of us, at least eight children were there — and his wife, Emily, kindly brought in a bounce house for the occasion. Not for the 31-year-old birthday boy, mind you, but for our wild brood of kiddos. The hope was that they would safely entertain themselves next to us while we enjoyed 30 seconds of adult conversation.
Oliver is getting much better at listening and focusing on tasks. But when other kids are around, it can be tough to get our son to cool his jets — so Spencer and I can cool ours. Social occasions are typically just one or both of us chasing our toddler around, now with Hadley in tow, as he tries to destroy valuables.
Still, Spence and I wanted to go. Our friends hadn’t all gotten together since my sister’s pool party back in July, and I was looking forward to seeing everyone — even though I knew not to get my hopes up, given I’m typically unable to sit down or eat more than a few potato chips on the run.
Oliver spotted the bounce house as soon as we pulled in. With its bright colors and tall castle spires, these inflatable attractions pull children in like a riptide. Ollie has never jumped in one, but instinctively knew he wanted to. He followed the bigger kids right over. I try not to be a helicopter parent — honestly. But the helicoptering just comes so naturally to me. I don’t know if it’s the prematurity of my firstborn (probably) or just my general state of nervousness (likely), but I find it hard to leave Ollie to his own devices. What if he needs me? What if he gets hurt?
If we’re home, that’s one thing; we know exactly where he is and what he’s likely doing by the sound of his footfalls. The downstairs is baby-proofed. Spencer and I don’t follow him from room to room — unless he’s been quiet for too long, which requires investigation. We typically find him trying to loosen a cabinet door’s hinges with a “screwdriver” (pen cap).
The parents took turns watching the bouncers on Saturday. At least four kids seemed to be in there at any time — and Ollie, though big for his age, was one of the youngest. I knew he would want to do what the other children were doing, but might not yet have the skills. Story of my little guy’s life.
My sister took first watch. Aunt Katie hung out with the kids until burgers and hot dogs were served, and then we wrangled everyone over to the picnic tables. Ollie ate approximately three bites of dinner before declaring he was “all done,” and it was back to playing.
Though Spencer is a very hands-on parent, my husband was wearing a steampunk-inspired get-up (long story) that totally prevented him from, say, climbing into a bouncy castle. Ollie wanted to jump, but was scared to go alone. He paused just outside the flap everyone must wriggle through to get inside, looking back at me nervously.
My interest in hauling my behind into a children’s bounce house, especially with a full stomach? Zero. But I wasn’t going to keep Ollie out. After removing his sneakers and boosting him inside, he tumbled around and cried for me.
“Mommy!” he called, sweaty curls bouncing in time to Rebecca’s leaping. “Mommy!”
Nothing can prepare your heart for a moment like that. I pushed down to test the castle’s resilience. Though anxious to help my son, I wasn’t about to pop a children’s giant inflatable. On top of that ranking high on my list of Most Embarrassing Things That Have Ever Happened to Me, it could be dangerous. We’ve seen the news reports. “Mommy!” Ollie yelled again. “He wants you!” one of the bigger kids said, fingers laced through the protective netting. “Are you coming in? Can you?” We were about to find out. Knowing other adults had already been inside, I belly-flopped onto the slide and started kicking my legs. It was slick and uncomfortable, but I managed to shimmy way up to the narrow entrance.
That felt like a victory. Ollie was just inside, his little hands visible, and I wriggled to get closer. I could do this! Then I got stuck. A combination of the floor constantly moving (no traction), panic and sheer two-babies-later girth got me wedged just inside the entrance: head, arms and shoulders inside, everything else — my backside, most especially — still out. The heavy flap came down on my back.
Ollie was positively delighted to see me pop through, which spurred me on. After an awkward minute or two, I managed to scramble — sweaty, redfaced, mortified — inside with the kids.
“You finally did it!” one of the girls yelled, arms thrown up in solidarity.
Oliver climbed into my lap, the two of us forming a tugboat on stormy seas. We stayed like that for a while. The big kids proudly displayed their bouncing skills while Ollie cheered them on, now content with the barrier of my arms around him.
As happy as I was that he was happy, I was sticky and overheated. Nausea set in quickly.
“I’m too old for this!” I called to no one. The leaping kids giggled at me: a giant in their midst. Ollie laughed, too, and patted my arm.
I often ask myself what kind of parent I want to be. How do I want my children to remember me?
Though he’s still so young, I hope Ollie will think of me as a loving mother who willingly wedged herself into a bouncy castle.
And that no one else will remember the sight of my backside as I did.