Yesterday, I described our most recent form of family entertainment. The zipline. I shared how I had some mom-ish misgivings, but how easily swayed I became when I witnessed their sheer delight and obvious aptitude for the thing.
So. I decided to try it myself. Up on the fence I scrambled, scurried down to the end like a giant squirrel with an inner-ear problem, and readied myself for the jump.
"Jump big," Pops tells me, "'cause you don't want to smack into the fence." I'm good at following instructions. I grabbed onto the rope ... and jumped big.
Really big. Like, so big my adult-sized body sailed up into the air with an abandon that should never be attempted ... unless your grip is super tight, your legs are tucked under you firmly, and you are ready for the jolt that comes when your body weight snaps against the overhead wire ...
... of which, I did none. 'Cause I was only told to "Jump Big!" Which I did.
And wouldn't you know ... my grip slipped.
And then I slipped.
And then I ended up on my back in the dirt. Laughing hysterically.
And my children hovered to see if I was okay and why I was laughing so much. And my husband kept taking pictures.
So that, my friends, is a real-life example of what happens when you hoist Prudence up to a homemade zipline and tell her to jump big.