|My knees are burning from climbing this godforsaken|
stairway to Heaven
Indoor bouncy houses are awesome for those rainy/snowy/all-around-inclement weather days, because they allow your child to work off boundless energy and, hopefully, nap. Today was one of those days.
At three-and-half years old, my son still prefers me to go on these things with him. Luckily I'm short as shit and (relatively) thin, so I'm able to squeeze into these things without too much difficulty. And I suppose it is a good way to squeeze in some exercise when your husband is out of town for the weekend and you have no time to yourself. But man, bouncing around in one of those things is a double-edged sword because a) Other kids start to flock around you and see you as one of them, which is sort of cool and uncomfortable, all at the same time and; b) You're most likely the one who's going to get hurt...as I did today. This is exercise to the exteme, because today, I literally and figuratively "felt the burn."
I now understand why parents have to sign waivers upon entrance into these bouncy houses of death: because some of us, myself included, occasionally join in, thinking we're still spry and physically fit. But nothing makes me feel older than jumping in a bouncy castle with my son, only to start gasping for air like Sylvia Sidney after a lifetime smoking habit.
|"Bitches, where's my Lucky Strikes?"|
But that's not the worst of it.
Today, I actually burned myself in one. Yes, BURNED. Jack had me repeatedly climb some big, puffy stairs (sorry about that, knee cartilage), and descend down a rather steep, fast slide. Like a moron, I put my arm out to try and stop myself from crashing into Jack, and felt a sudden onset of pain not unlike the feeling of setting off a match to one's own finger; yes, I'd singed a layer of skin clear off my elbow.
Preschoolers don't care if Mommy is hurt. Yes, you're supposed to cuddle them and kiss their boo-boos in perpetuity whenever they're injured, but Mommy falling down an inflatable slide in agony, a piece of flesh flapping from her forearm doesn't conjure up one ounce of empathy on their part. You're expected to soldier on and keep doing it over and over again.
And Jesus Christ, would it kill Management to put out some benches for the parents to perch on? I mean, where the hell are we supposed to sit? After my little accident, I went to sit on the edge of a bouncy house that marked the entrance (there were no kids around this one), and I bounced right the fuck off the thing just as a dad walked by, saying, "Aww, did you burn yourself?"