These Days

My husband’s alarm wakes me in the morning and I not-so-gently nudge him to actually get up instead of pressing snooze. I’m the type of person who gets up on the first alarm. He is not.  

“What time is your first phone call?” I ask him, hoping it’s not too early today.

“8:00” he tells me. 

“Is it a video?”

“Yep,” he says. 

I sigh and roll out of bed to get ready for the day, watching the time so I can be dressed and out of the room before he logs onto his computer in the office (a small desk at one end of our bedroom). I don’t want to be like his coworker who accidentally gave everyone a glimpse of her husband in the shower. These days it’s important to note when the laptops are on and stay clear. 

I check on my oldest in her room and encourage her to brush her teeth before school. 

“I’ll be ready on time. I know when school starts.” she tells me. “And anyway, they can’t see my teeth up close on the screen.”

“Yeah, but I can,” I tell her.

At 8:30, she shuts the door to her room and logs on to her fifth-grade classroom, sitting at the desk we set up for her under her loft bed. 

The younger two have already been up and playing downstairs for a while. The youngest woke at sunrise, dressed himself in shorts and a t-shirt, (even though it’s practically freezing outside), and wandered into my room where I told him he could go play downstairs. The middle followed him and I hear their happy imaginative play and the clank of Magnatiles while I get ready. Then I head downstairs and give them an announcement.

“Mommy’s going to get laundry going, then we’re starting school!” I say in a singsong voice. I homeschool the youngest in kindergarten and the middle in second grade.

“But we’re playing!” my son exclaims with exasperation.

“And I’m hungry!” my daughter pipes up. We go through this routine practically every morning.

Somehow I had hoped they’d magically fed themselves. But it was not so. I feed the children waffles with syrup and pick up our current read aloud at the kitchen table. “But after this, it’s math time,” I tell them. They both groan, which they know irks me, the former math teacher. We summarize what we’ve read in our story, Blue Willow, and I ask for predictions on what will happen next. I read out loud for a while and they beg me to keep going, but my voice is starting to fade (and I’m not a huge fan of reading out loud).

My oldest wanders downstairs, shoving her hamster in my face so I can acknowledge its presence. “We’re starting a Heritage Project,” she tells me, cuddling her hamster back against her. She gives me details about interviews she needs to do, family tree information we need to dig up.

“That sounds fun,” I say, petting the hamster. “We’ll have to figure all that out later.” Her break is over and she brings her pet back upstairs.

The younger two and I move to the formal dining table in the other room and go through the date and days and numbers of the week, then bring out paints to demonstrate symmetry (See, math can be fun!). They want to keep painting whatever they want, so I let them. My daughter paints a house, and my son makes blobs and mixes them together, forming one big brown blob. I love watching what they create.

My husband wanders downstairs to grab a cup of coffee and the kids beg him to play a game with them.

“Just a quick one, “ he says. “I have another call in ten minutes.”

They crowd around my husband’s arcade game and snort and giggle at each other. I clean up the table and check on the laundry. After a few minutes, my husband turns off the game and goes back upstairs for his call.

“Let’s do reading!” I say.

“I’m hungry!” my son announces. “Is it lunch time yet?”

“Remember breakfast?” I tell him. “We’re doing language arts first.”

“Fine, but then lunch,” he crosses his arms and glares at me. I pull out our reading curriculum and he works on matching games and grins when he finds a correct match. My middle daughter works on drafting paragraphs next to us at the table.

My oldest marches downstairs, declaring herself on lunch break. The other two happily abandon their work and I make lunch, bargaining with the kids over eating a well-rounded lunch instead of just corn dogs. They end up eating corn dogs and some Halloween candy. My husband comes downstairs and grabs his lunch, joining us at the kitchen table for a bit before he has to take another call.

Lunch break is over and we move on to Science and Social Studies. We read books about rocks, boil sugar water and set it up to make rock candy. The kids beg to watch an episode of the Magic School bus, and luckily I can find one to match the current topic. Then they listen to stories of settlers in the new colonies while remodeling their earlier Magnatile creation . My oldest comes downstairs and joins in, her presence signaling the end of the school day.

I tidy up our work from the day and my husband pops back downstairs, announcing he’s going for a walk. The kids grab their sneakers and walk out the door with him. They’ll go swing at the playground for a bit, while I putter around the house by myself, do some laundry, wash dishes, sit and read or write. I relish the silence.

They come home, my husband goes back upstairs to work, and the kids take turns practicing piano. They check their daily checklist to see what chores need to be done, and I smile as I hear them laughing hysterically upstairs as they supposedly put their clothes away. Their feet pound on the stairs as they come down at once and practically run into me.

“Can we blow up balloons?” they ask. “All of them?”

I think about it for a second, but can’t see any reason why not. We used what we needed for science the other day. The rest of the balloons in the bag are extra.

“Sure, go ahead,” I tell them. They start huffing and puffing and hand me balloon after balloon to tie.

“We’re going to fill up our rooms!” my daughter declares with a big grin.

“Sounds like fun to me,” I tell her. I don’t mind balloons all over the place.

They take their balloons upstairs and I hear more giggles and stomping overhead. My husband comes downstairs and we strategize Christmas presents, figuring out what we’re going to get this year. We talk about ideas for the house, possibly finding a new kitchen table.

I make tacos for dinner and we gather around the table, the kids explaining how they decorated balloons with markers and helped each other draw and write words. My oldest has decorated a balloon with a mermaid, the middle a fairy, and the youngest a sky with clouds.

Dinner is over and everyone cleans up. The kids play for a bit before we send them to bed. Then it’s time for my husband to catch up on some e-mails, and for me to work on reading and writing. Tomorrow we’ll wake up and repeat a similar version of today. Then we’ll do it again the next day, and the day after that.

This isn’t what I envisioned our days looking like this year- everyone staying at home, all three of my children doing school here, my oldest on a computer all day, my husband upstairs in our room, but I am enjoying this season of being together. We aren’t rushing to get to school on time, or juggling multiple soccer practices, or filling our social calendar. Instead, the kids are playing together, we get to see each other multiple times a day, and we’re talking and growing closer to each other in our own household. I know many families are not in the same position as us, and I know how blessed we are to be in this place in our lives together. So while there are many things going on outside our home, I'm savoring this time together as a family.

Paying Attention

“Mommy, before you go sit in the sun, I want to show you my creation!” my son calls to me as I’m about to sneak out the sliding door to the backyard. He’s been building some type of contraption with Magnatiles, spending days and days on it actually. It sits on the coffee table in our play room, squares and jutting triangles, topped with toy cars and airplanes.

Honestly, I want to knock it down and put it away. Clean it up and wipe the clutter away. But he’s begged to keep it up, and I’ve acquiesced. He’s been in his own little world, only occasionally arguing with a sister over particular pieces. I haven’t been paying his building much attention, other than to urge him to keep the pieces off the floor where people could slip on them.

“Okay,” I say, “Show me your creation,” and reluctantly step back over the threshold into the house. He shows me the rooms he has for his cars, the garage and the elevator. I ooh and ahh appropriately, quite impressed at his details and the way he’s manipulated the pieces just the way he wants them. He’s happy to show me and grins from ear to ear, shyly touching his pieces. I smile back at him. It is heart warming to see him so excited about something.

He begins to fiddle with a car on an orange, square tile and I see his mind begin to focus on his creation again. “Can I go outside now?” I ask.

“Okay,” he tells me distractedly, already engrossed in toys.

“Hey,” I say to him and he pauses to bring his blue eyes up to meet mine. “How did you know Mommy was going to sit in the sun?”

“Because that’s what you always do,” he answers. He’s right, of course. When the kids are occupied quietly indoors, the sunshine in the backyard calls to me and I sneak out the sliding door with a book and a glass of ice water. I wasn’t paying attention to him, but he’s been watching me.

Outside, I settle in to a cushioned chair directly in the sunlight and set my glass on a wrought-iron table. I close my eyes and absorb the warmth from the sun’s rays, relaxing into the chair and putting my feet up. Then I pick up my book* and begin to read, transporting myself to a faraway land where horses rise up from water and will harm you if you’re not paying attention. I’m sucked in by the romance and the danger and ignore the world around me. Once I begin to feel too much heat from the sun, I head back inside to check on the children.

My daughter comes downstairs to show me the journal she’s been working in. She proudly shows me the comic book she’s creating. She has drawn a hero and a villain. There are characters with clouds and rain coming down on their heads. “This means they’re sad,” she tells me. “The girl was mean to her.” She shows me the words she’s written in the thought bubbles, turning each page and reading it to me. I can’t help but laugh at the onomatopoeia she uses: “Bam! Bam! Bam!” “Wak!” I’m so impressed with her attention to detail. I didn’t have to tell her that a raincloud above someone’s head means sadness. Or how to use the bubbles above the characters’ heads to write their words. Or even how to use the words that are sounds. She figured it out all on her own. I know she’s been reading a lot of comics, but I wasn’t really paying attention to her doing so. As it turns out, she was doing more than just reading them. She was studying them.

“I’m so impressed!” I tell her. She grins shyly at me, but we both feel the joy of a fun project well done.

After dinner I mechanically rinse plates and wipe down the sink in front of the kitchen window. I notice the plants on my windowsill and marvel at the number of violet flowers on my African Violet. I was once gifted an African Violet by a family I babysat for, and I treasured it for years. The plant on my windowsill is not the same one, but it makes me think of that time, of being young and energetic. There are a bunch of flowers in full bloom on my plant right now. I rotate the plant to take a closer look. I didn’t realize there were so many. The purple petals brighten up my windowsill and I smile at their beauty. They must have multiplied when I wasn’t paying attention.

Sometimes I worry that I’m not doing enough for the children; that I’m not teaching them enough or having them experience enough. I worry that I’m leaving them to their own devices so I can go sit outside in the sun, when I should be paying more attention to them and guiding them on the path that I want them to take. Then I take a step back and see the joy on my son’s face as he describes his latest Magnatile creation, or the pride in my daughter’s eyes as she shows me her comic book. The light in their eyes fills me with simple, unexpected joy. And I realize, sometimes things bloom when I’m not paying attention.

Ice Cream Summers

My mother was a Tupperware fan, which is a brand I recently learned became popular in the fifties. It’s still around today, although their products have changed over time. I have fond memories of what would now be considered their “vintage” items. (Let me clarify, I am not “vintage.” Just the Tupperware we used.)

I remember pouring Kool-Aid from a yellow pitcher with the classic push button top, or matching thick plastic bottoms with their coordinating clear ridged lids, or listening for that trademark “Burp” when a lid would seal. Our leftovers and lunches and snacks were neatly arranged in those sturdy containers lining the fridge. We would take them everywhere, prominently displaying our name on them in permanent marker should there be any confusion as to the owners of the containers.

Collaboratively, those Tupperware containers create a colorful backdrop of my childhood. However, there is one special container I recall vividly from summer- the Tupperware Ice Cream Container.

The specific container we had was dark brown with a milky white plastic lid. I can’t imagine how a company thought brown would be a cute color to store food in, but hey, it was created way back when, by people without Pinterest and the guidance of Joanna Gaines. It was solid and it was precious and it was the most exciting thing to see during the summer because it signaled pure, sweet joy soon to come.

Actual picture of my mother’s Tupperware container, which she graciously texted me for this very blog post. Thanks, Mom!

You see, one summer my mother discovered a cookies and cream (with Oreo cookies, of course!) ice cream recipe that fit perfectly in our unassuming brown container. Want to know the best part? No ice cream machine needed. It’s true! Which was great because we did not have an ice cream maker, but we did want to whip together our own ice cream. All we needed was some good old-fashioned muscle. And don’t forget the egg yolks, Eagle Brand Evaporated milk (yes, it had to be that brand), Oreos, and a few other ingredients. We made this ice cream year after year, summer after summer.

Here’s a copy of the recipe below. Please note, I did not create this recipe. I have no idea who did. Maybe Eagle Brand created this recipe? Or Oreo Cookies?. Those creators are geniuses and are very capable of having created the recipe pictured. Also, apologies for sharing recipes without permission and violating copyright laws. Regardless, here it is. Enjoy.

The fun part of following this ice cream recipe was crushing the cookies. We’d put them in a baggie on the counter and smash them with the bottom of a cup. We couldn’t help but giggle as we watched the Oreos break into pieces under our mighty hands. Please do try this at home.

Once everything was mixed and folded and poured into the Tupperware container, we had to wait an excruciating six hours until the ice cream was ready. This was the hard part, obviously. If we planned accordingly, it would be ready in the late afternoon or evening. Then, we’d invite the neighbor kids over and we would all dig in, stuffing ourselves until we couldn’t handle the smooth richness anymore. This process repeated many times over summer, and many summers over the years. That ice cream is still my favorite today.

Perhaps those early cookies and cream ice cream days fanned the flame of my current ice cream obsession. It’s a summer staple in my house. My husband and children know I love sampling from small ice cream shops wherever we go to taste the frozen goodness. The kids don’t have to try hard to get mommy to buy ice cream for everyone when we are out and about.

I was gifted an ice cream maker years ago so I could make my own at home, and I have since gone through two more makers. My current one is a Kitchenaid mixer attachment and is so easy the kids can use it. My muscles (or lack thereof) thank me. I enjoy trying new flavors and mixing them up. I once tried to make my own mint ice cream, using actual mint leaves. This did not turn out well, and I do not recommend, but it was a great learning experience. I’m sticking to buying that flavor.

I’ve also used various fruits to make ice cream. Before I typed this blog post, I sat and devoured the last of an apricot ice cream, made from the juices of locally picked apricots and way too much sugar (true story).

Last week I wanted to recreate the cookies and cream ice cream from my childhood, but I was out of Oreo cookies (I have no idea why I am constantly out of Oreos. I mean, I buy them all the time.). Instead, I raided the freezer for my Girl Scout cookie stash and discovered an unopened sleeve of Thin Mints. And voila, Thin Mint and Cream ice cream was born. Yes, I realize you can buy this in stores, but I promise mine was delicious. The secret ingredient was the giggles from smashing cookies before mixing them in.

Girl Scout Cookie Thin Mint Ice Cream about to be frozen for 6 hours.

While I might not have a vintage Tupperware ice cream container to excite my children, I do have an actual ice cream maker and the stories of my ice cream summers to share. I like to think I’m creating a tradition, marking their memories of summer with ice cream, so they too can reminisce over the flavors we create, and recall the joy of licking the last bit of ice cream out of the bottom of a container.

A Treasure, These Words

Pre-quarantine, my husband would come home from work and check the mail. Entering through the garage door, he’d set his things down, and without pause ask, “Did you get the mail yet?” When my response was (always, predictably) “No.” He’d grab the mail key and walk the ten feet from the front door to the mailbox, flip open the lid, and unlock the compartment to reveal the day’s treasures. Some days he’d return with a stack of colorful flyers and bills to place on the counter, and other days he’d come back empty handed. I never understood his obsession with the mail.  

When my husband traveled, sometimes for a week or so at a time, I’d forget about that metal mailbox out front. I knew what waited for me- coupons and the latest ads from the grocery store (a huge waste of paper, in my opinion). I wouldn’t use them and they would eventually go into the recycling bin anyway. I knew there would be bills to mark for payment and tack up on the bulletin board, maybe a National Geographic for the kids. But really, nothing of urgency that couldn’t wait patiently in the mailbox for my husband to grab when he came home from work in a few days.  Or a week. Apologies to the mail delivery person for crowding up the box. I do appreciate you. I just don’t appreciate all the junk. 

Photo by Mikaela Wiedenhoff on Unsplash

But that was then. This is now. 

Today I’ve checked the clock a few times already, wondering if the mail has arrived. Our mail delivery is usually around ten am. Once the clock hits 10:03 (those three extra minutes make me feel like I’m exercising patience), I grab the mail key off the hook, trot out to the mailbox, and unlock the inside compartment. Reaching in with greedy hands I stand outside and rifle through the loot. Striking gold, I place an envelope on top of my pile and head inside. 

“Mommy has mail!” I announce to the kids, waving an envelope. They glance up at me, annoyed I interrupted their game, and continue to play Legos on the floor. I step around towers, trip over a stray block, and plop the extra mail on the counter. 

Setting my mug of (already cold) coffee on the table, I sweep aside breakfast crumbs and slowly peel open the envelope. The amount of words on the page inside makes me giddy. Someone took a lot of time and effort to specifically write to me. With actual handwriting. Then addressed the envelope and put it in their own mailbox, where it magically ends up in mine. How cool is that?  

I take my time to read the letter quickly, then again to make sure I took it all in. A treasure, these words from another living person. I try to picture where she was sitting when she wrote them. Did her children interrupt her multiple times? Did she write it all at once, or in stages? I envision thoughts swirling around her head, then coming to land on the page I hold in my hand. 

I’m interrupted by children wanting snacks. Then lunch. My letter sits, forlorn, awaiting a response. Finally the kids are ready to go outside and play. I grab a clipboard and some water, a few colorful pens that represent how fun I am. Maybe I’ll draw a fancy border on my reply. I’ve always wanted to make those fancy swirls. It’s nice to get pretty things in the mail. I grab a few of my daughter’s brush pens and search for a piece of paper.

The children jump on the trampoline and I settle into a cushioned chair in the shade. I draw a swirl in the corner of the page. It does not come out as I had hoped. I draw a few more, down and around the side. Perhaps if I try a different color. But alas, I have created a border for my page that looks like it was drawn by my four-year-old. Maybe my friend will assume I had some extra help with my letter.  Let’s go with that. 

Someone starts to cry and I look up to see an unhappy face. I set down my clipboard and pens and mediate the situation. Then everyone is hungry again, so I go inside and heat up a bag of popcorn, distribute bowls and fruit and waters. 

“Can we use the hose on the trampoline?” the children ask. “Sure,” I say. They run to change into swimsuits. 

“Don’t forget towels!” I yell. 

I gather used bowls and sweep up spilled popcorn kernels and orange peels. The children come barreling out and turn the water on. Once jumping has resumed I choose a color to begin my letter writing. I barely scrape out “Dear” when the pen runs out of ink. I run inside to grab another color. Again, no ink. I make a note to get my daughter new colorful pens. After my third try, the pen works. I trace back over the first few faded words I tried to write, hoping my friend glosses over this sloppiness. 

Again, someone starts crying and I mediate. The children are done playing with the hose and go inside to change. I put my supplies back on the patio table and gather scattered towels. 

Sitting back down in my patio chair I pick up my working pen and let the words flow. I answer all her questions and write back more of my own. I write about what we are doing at home, the audiobooks we are reading, what I am reading. (My daughter tries to read over my shoulder and I hold the words close to me, tell her to go play. This is just for Mommy.) I ask about her house and her family. I turn my page over and keep writing. 

The children come back outside. They are hungry again, but this time it is a battle. Dinner will be done soon (after I get up to make it) and no, they cannot eat chips because then they won’t eat any of the dinner I am about to go make. More whining and threats of being sent to their rooms ensue, until I win the dinner battle (this time. Some days I just let them eat all the chips). 

I finish my letter with a flourish, signing my name in cursive, and bring my supplies inside, setting them on the kitchen counter. I make dinner, moving my letter out of the way to avoid grease stains and hoping I didn’t just place it onto something sticky. 

Once dinner is cooking, I address the envelope and rush it outside, putting up the little red flag on the mailbox. I like to think the little red flag waves happiness and productivity. “Look, I wrote a letter today! Come and get my mail and spread some cheer!”  

My husband comes downstairs from working in his makeshift home office. “Did you get the mail?” he asks. 

“Yup,” I answer. “It’s on the counter. I got a letter from a pen pal today!” I beam. 

In the time of quarantine and not seeing people face to face, it’s words from a friend that really brighten my day. I might not be able to have conversations in person right now, but the words of encouragement that come in my mailbox mean I can still relate to someone else. That I’m not isolated and alone. That even though we are apart, we are still together.

The Things I Didn't Do

Sitting on the back patio reading and supervising children, I overheard a conversation my four-year-old son had with a stuffed Care Bear he brought outside. He was jumping on the trampoline and tossing the bear as high as it would go before he scooped it back again. At one point, he miscalculated his throw and the bear landed in the bark around the trampoline. My son rushed down the ladder and scooped him up. 

“Are you ok?” he whispered, holding it close. 

“No, I’m not.” This was the bear talking back. 

Holding the bear at arm’s length. “Oh yeah, you’re hurt. Can you fly?” 

“I can’t. If I bend my wings, they hurt.” (Apparently the bear has invisible wings.)

My son hugged and cuddled and whispered sweet nothings to his bear, gently carrying it back up on the trampoline to toss into the air once again. 

Imagine invisible wings on our Care Bear, here.  

I had high hopes for this quarantine business. Not having to go anywhere or have our time dictated by outside commitments and extracurricular, I knew I could fill it with fun and exciting things to do at home. The opportunity to have all three of my children at home at once to learn and play was exhilarating. We were going to accomplish things. We were going to soar.  

The children normally receive a daily checklist of responsibilities to accomplish throughout the day. My first grader (who I’ve homeschooled for a couple of years now) has academic responsibilities listed, such as sitting down with me to do her math and reading lessons, etc. The younger one has preschool activities, and the older one who usually was at school all day, only had her chores listed. Since they were all three going to be home, I updated the checklists for all to include more, more, more. 

We were going to have so much time without all the driving from here to there, without the sports and church groups and scout groups. We were all going to learn a foreign language. We were going to follow along with workout videos. We were going to do cool science activities. We were going to learn to do watercolor painting, and take up hand lettering so we could write pretty posters. We were going to be pen pals with all our friends and have movie nights so we could watch movies from my and my husband’s childhood. Oh, we were going to. 

As for me, quarantine would be the perfect time to write the novels floating around in my head. To update my blog and get it on a regular schedule. To deep clean the house from top to bottom. To purge all the clutter bogging us down. To cook healthy meals and bake more and read all the books sitting on my bookshelf and finally make the baby books and the family photo albums. 

I had plans, is what I am saying. 

Two months into the stay at home shelter in place whatever you want to call it quarantine, and I can assure you we did nothing of the sort. Sure, the kids kept up on schoolwork because of course, but all the extra that I planned didn’t pan out as anticipated. We did Youtube workout videos for a week, and we randomly followed new art classes on Facebook and found a couple of pen pas, but my vision was far from our reality. 

Instead, we settled into sort of a rhythm. The kids are waking up at sunrise to check off the schoolwork they’ve been assigned. Then they play together and jump on the trampoline and get lost in hours of audiobooks and I don’t have the heart to pull them away to do formal art lessons or learn a foreign language or anything else I might have thought would be fun to do. We go on daily bike rides in our neighborhood before lunch every weekday, yelling hello to whoever we might see. The kids have taken up cutting and coloring and pasting and displaying their creations on the walls of the dining room. They build forts and cuddle kittens and interact with each other all day every day, more than they ever have in their entire lives.   

My husband and I filled a spot in our garage with items to purge, but we could still do so much more. I updated my blog, but haven’t figured out a regular schedule, or what to even write without sounding like I’m repeating everything else that’s out there or feeling like I’ll be judged for not focusing on the bigger issues in the world today. My floor is constantly messy and my house would certainly not pass a white glove test. My novels are still floating in my head, and I keep finding more books to read and buying more things on the internet than ever before. 

As the states contemplate their phases of reopening, I could wallow in the fact that I wasted my quarantine. The checklists weren’t completed, the kids aren’t concert pianists fluent in Spanish and selling high-quality watercolor masterpieces. My novel isn’t on the New York Bestseller’s list and my house isn’t sparkling clean. 

But did I really waste this time? 

My son whispering sweet nothings to his teddy bear tells me I haven’t. We haven’t. It’s not about the things I didn’t do. Not at all.

Thoughts in Her Head

My daughter walks home alone from school now. She takes the same path we’ve traced year after year, beginning in kindergarten when her backpack touched the backs of her knees, her baby brother was strapped to my chest, and her little sister was in the stroller. Last year in third grade, I stood at the corner and watched to make sure she safely crossed the street and followed the instructions of the crossing guard. Now, in fourth grade, she meanders quietly home, processing her thoughts after school without the constant chatter from a sibling or probing questions from me.

During the early years of school, I would pester her when I picked her up at her teacher’s door. What did she do? Who did she play with? But she would refuse to answer my questions, despite trying the alternative, “What was your favorite part of today?” or “What games did you play with your friends today?” I was constantly met with, “I don’t want to talk about it!” 

-You can read the rest of the story over at Kindred Mom. 

The Trampoline for Quarantine

“Want to get a trampoline now?” I asked my husband late one night. We’re quarantined with three active children who have been using the living room as a parkour course. For the sake of the couch, I needed an alternative. 

“Sure,” he replied. “But I want a good one. One with a high weight limit.” 

“Done,” I said. 

And we both went to work on Googling: “Trampolines for families. Trampolines with good reviews. Trampolines for adults. Trampolines that will last until the kids move out.”

“Maybe we should measure the backyard?” My husband suggested, mouse hovering over a “Buy Now” button. 

“Yeah, that might be a good idea.” 

We found the tape measure and haphazardly stretched it across the yard. 

“Isn’t the geodome like 10 feet?” I said. It’s a round climbing structure we have in the backyard. It takes up half the yard.  “We could probably do a 15 or 16 ft trampoline. I mean, we want everyone to fit.”

“Yeah, that sounds good,” he said. 

“Done,” I said. And made my husband go through the process of finding a coupon and ordering the trampoline. 

A week or so later the kids were on a Facetime call with friends when the doorbell rang. I gasped as I opened the door and stumbled into six gigantic boxes taking up my front porch. 

I debated on leaving them until Husband came home, but someone might steal them in my quiet neighborhood. They were clearly labeled with pictures of kids living their best life jumping on a trampoline. Better to bring them inside. 

The kids crowded around, phone in hand, to show their friends the boxes. “Out of my way,” I bellowed, wrestling one of the eighty pound boxes inside. Five more to go. 

Inch by inch I scooted the boxes in. Pulling and prodding with some assistance from my pint-sized associates. 

Finally, they were in, friends on the phone long forgotten, and my front door unable to open because that was as far as I could drag the boxes. Good thing we weren’t expecting visitors. 

Over dinner we watched a YouTube video on how to assemble the pieces. The male and female volunteers looked like average parents, inserting poles here and there, clicking things into place. At super speed (literally, the video sped up because who wants to watch someone hook spring after spring after spring after spring) the trampoline was assembled, and the safety net put on. It looked simple. Basic. Step-by-step attainable. Husband and I both hold college degrees. Surely we can assemble a giant trampoline. 

The next day after work, Husband wrestled the heavier boxes out to the backyard. Fighting gnats, I mean children, that continued to swarm around us, we laid out the foundation pieces. 

“Um, this is kinda big,” my husband said, watching as our lovely patch of lawn was dwarfed by the metal circle he now had laying on the ground. 

“Yay!” the gnat children cheered, running in circles and tripping over pieces. 

We put together the base, click click click. Maybe this would be pretty simple after all. 

The connecting pieces came next, finishing the circle of fun. After that the actual bouncy part of the trampoline was unrolled. 

The directions said to attach the springs one at a time, at alternating sides. The first few were easy, as the mat wasn’t fully stretched. Then we had to start counting holes and matching them up.  

“Let’s just go from here,” we said. Counting is for nerds. And we started to fill in one side of the circle. The springs started to stretch, my husband's muscles bulging as he matched them to their correct spots and tried not to blast his eye out from a ricocheting spring. 

Two hours later we had the base done. 

Next was the padding over the springs, which you’d think they’d have figured out some type of elastic to go around the frame. Like a fitted sheet. But no, we had to individually thread five million holes and tie the topper down. 

Now we were done. 

No, just kidding. Apparently it’s not “safe” to jump on a trampoline without a safety net. I don’t know about you, but we never had any nets on trampolines when I was younger. You either stayed on or fell off. And if you fell off, you just climbed back on and tried to be more careful. Or you ended up in the emergency room with a broken arm. Such was life. 

Anyway, we opted for the premium net. Nothing is too safe for our precious children (who were practically frothing at the mouth with uncontrollable excitement at this point). This net required more work than the trampoline itself. We take safety very seriously. Obviously. 

Ten poles had to be strategically connected to the trampoline base. Using his combined powers of super strength and rocket science reasoning, Husband meticulously latched and clicked and pounded when the clicks weren’t clicking. 

I went in to make dinner and feed the heathens. Next thing I knew, it was dark and the poles were all attached. 

Now, our backyard has a sorry excuse for a light to illuminate the patio. Really, it just serves as a graveyard for bugs. 

The oldest child fetched the floodlight from the garage and said, “Let there be light.” Not really. God said that. Regardless, there was light. Light enough to realize that the poles were on upside down. 

Yes folks, you read that right. Husband spent the next hour angrily righting his wrongs. 

I cleaned the kitchen. 

So the poles are hooked into place. Now what? Oh yes, the actual net to go around this behemoth and save all the children. We had to attach thin metal strips of alternating sizes in the correct spaces. But of course they weren’t color coded. We had to actually measure them to see which was longer. While maneuvering the fabric of the gigantic net-to-save-us-all. While standing on the trampoline. We only lost one metal strip, found it, had to rearrange a few, and then came the next part: hooking the net to the top of the now-righted poles. 

I held, he reached, and we may have performed a few illicit moves all around. The top portion of the net was now complete. 

“You take over from here,” Husband said. 

“Fine,” I begrudged. 

So we all went to bed.

The next morning the husband went to work and the kids jumped while I tied the net to the base. And tied. Over and under and through the hole in the net and through the hook in the spring and through the hole in the net and through the hook in the spring and through the hole in the net and through the hook in the spring. One hundred and seventy times. Tie off and done. 

For real this time. 

We might not have a lawn any more, but we do have a trampoline to last until the kids move out. With a premium safety net. No broken arms on our watch.