This weekend I did what all good parents do — I took my boys to a trampoline park and then immediately questioned my own physical decline.
They LOVED it. Pure joy. Launching themselves into foam pits. Double bouncing. Flipping like tiny, fearless superheroes with fully functioning inner ears. (Can you see those two little arms poking out amongst the foam (picture to the left)? Oh the fun.
And then they asked me to jump.
Absolutely not.
At what point in life does this switch flip? Because I distinctly remember being a kid and thinking trampolines were the greatest invention of all time. I could bounce for hours. No dizziness. No nausea. No pulled muscles. Just vibes.
Now? If I jump too aggressively while putting on jeans, I need a recovery plan.
The idea of stepping onto a trampoline as a grown adult feels less like “fun family memory” and more like “soft tissue injury waiting to happen.” I’m not even worried about breaking a bone. I’m worried about the immediate wave of motion sickness followed by 45 minutes of trying to pretend I’m fine while sweating slightly.
And don’t even get me started on the butterflies. Why does my body react to the mere thought of gentle bouncing, like I’m about to skydive?
Meanwhile, my boys are yelling, “Come on, Mom!” and I’m standing there holding everyone’s shoes like the responsible, grounded, gravity-respecting adult I have become.
When did we go from fearless trampoline warriors to people who need to stretch before getting out of a vehicle?
No one warns you about this stage of life. One day you’re bouncing. The next day you’re budgeting your energy.
Anyway, the kids had a blast. I survived. And I’ll be cheering enthusiastically from the sidelines… forever.
Comments