My youngest son has now broken his right arm three times. The first two times were while he was jumping on the trampoline in our backyard. We got rid of our trampoline.
Someone, however, recently invented what we in Utah call a bounce house. I'm not sure what they're called elsewhere.
A bounce house, if you don't have one near you, is a big warehouse packed full of giant blow up slides and bouncing cages and I don't know what else.
And when I say I don't know what else, I'm being serious. In our local bounce house I've never actually been inside the bounce house proper.
Our bounce house has a "no way am I participating in this" area. Usually for parents. That's where I go. Not because I am afraid of breaking my humerus, but because the smell of that many teenage kids in an enclosed place, all of them sweating like . . . well, teenage kids, is really something better to write about than experience.
The smell wasn't bothering my son, but the broken humerus did . He's not really sure how it happened. He was rolling down a slide, wrestling with one of his friends when his arm twisted and he heard a pop. That's what a breaking humerus apparently sounds like.
Why did I take my boy to a bounce house? I keep asking myself that, even though the answer is fairly obvious.
I would have killed to have a bounce house when I was ten. Literally. Indiscriminately. The promise of such a thing as a bounce house to my ten-year-old mind brain would have been a siren call I could not have ignored. I guess it's a good thing I didn't have that kind of power back then.
Or now, come to think of it.
Anyways, we got rid of the trampoline. Now, no more bounce houses.
I am putting my foot down on that. I won't even be tempted by a bounce mansion, if that ever comes around.
A bounce palace though. Well . . . I'm only human. I'm sure my son's humerus will be healed by then.