Perilous Pasttimes

Or something similar . . .

I had just turned four and had recently discovered a new and wondrous activity.

Which I had to keep very, very secret.

Because for some reason, my Mom didn’t approve.

Weird . . .

I was a fresh graduate of the crib and had definitely moved on.

My new bed was a big, old, iron monstrosity with heavy bars forming the head and foot boards.

Did I mention big?

And old?

Well, both were appropriate.

It was about six thousand times the size of my old bed.

And a million times taller.

True story.

When my mom introduced us, we eyed each other distrustfully.

Okay, well, I eyed.

It just . . . sat there.

Looking huge.

Mom lifted me and set me on it.

I went very still. Then looked around.

The chenille bedspread was soft and neat.

I lay back. Hmm. Maybe it wasn’t so bad after all.

I stood up.

Wait a second. This bed was really . . . bouncy.

Really.

Bouncy.

Heyyyyy!

I started to jump.

Mom came back into the room and saw me. “Diane, don’t jump on the bed. You might hurt yourself.”

I stopped and sat down.

Mom bustled out again.

I looked at the bed. The big, soft bed. How on earth was it going to hurt me?

I stood up. Waited a moment to make sure she was gone.

Then started to jump again.

She stuck her head back inside. “Diane!”

I stopped. Man, she was good!

She picked up my laundry basket and headed for the kitchen.

I started to jump.

“Diane!” Warningly from the dining room.

Geeze. That woman was everywhere!

This time, I waited until I heard her doing things to the wringer-washer in the kitchen.

On the second bounce . . . “Diane!”

Okay, that was freaky.

I heard the washer go on. Ha! No way could she hear me now!

I bounced a really, really big bounce.

The biggest bounce of my very short career.

And bounced my nose right into the metal headboard.

Crunch.

You know that pause between the thump and the wail?

It takes that long to discover that one has been injured.

That said injuries hurt.

And to draw a great, big breath.

“Waaaahhhhh!”

Mom was there in a heartbeat.

Holding a cloth to a nose that was streaming blood.

Both from the business end.

And from the bridge, where it had been broken.

I have the scar, still.

There is a moral . . .

When Mom tells you not to do such-and-such because you might get hurt?

Believe her.

Just FYI.