For centuries, or so I hear, mothers have placed upon the heads of their daughters The Curse. I'm talking about the doom and damnation of sorts that mothers pass along to their daughters, swearing that once they have children of their own, they will surely get their due for all the drama, trauma and heartache they once put their mothers through.

The Curse is such a cliché.

Well shiver me timbers and consider me cliché, for I've uttered The Curse many a time—and I now gloat about seeing it in action.

When my girls were young, we had a trampoline. A big, round, bouncy gateway to injury and potential paralysis. My family had a trampoline when I was a kid and it was such fun that my youngest sister tried to convince me I simply had to provide similar fun for my daughters, despite the dangers. In 1992, I succumbed to her peer pressure. We got a trampoline. Despite the dangers.

As the dangers of a trampoline were many and my imagination expounded upon all of them, always and in all ways, I spent a lot of my time cringing and wringing my hands while my daughters jumped with joy. They did seats, stomachs, knees, seat and stomach wars, and—ohmyohmy!—front flips, back flips, and swan dives. I trembled with fear and anxiety each time they climbed up on the frame, removed their shoes, and proceeded to jump.

My fear and anxiety multiplied each time the girls invited friends over to jump. It was assuaged a bit—at least the fear Jim and I would be sued by parents of kiddos who had jumped right over the edge and onto their necks, leaving them paralyzed for life—by my requirement that every single child who did not belong to me have a permission slip signed by a parent before they even considered stepping foot on the mat. My daughters often whined and complained about having to hand out the slips to friends they invited over, to which I recited the dangers of the <cuss> thing and how kind and awesome of me it was to even allow such a death trap on my property and that they darn well better appreciate that and abide by my one simple rule regarding permission slips if they want to ever jump again themselves, much less with friends.

Yes, I was a paranoid parent. Allowing my daughters—and their friends—to jump on the trampoline took every ounce of restraint I had as well as never-ending lectures to myself on the importance of letting kids be kids. But I did it. I survived it. And so did they—despite my fears, my worries, my visions of daughters in wheelchairs or worse simply because I allowed my kids to be kids.

Fast forward to this past weekend.

Megan, Preston, and my grandsons moved into a new house over the weekend. They originally considered finding a rental that included a swimming pool (a pretty common commodity in their part of the desert) which worried me like mad thinking of all the ways such a feature could be fatal for Bubby and Baby Mac. Luckily Megan and Preston settled on a place that had no pool. Instead, the back yard features a full-size trampoline built into the ground.

Naturally the idea of the trampoline worries me nearly as much as a swimming pool. At this point I'm not too concerned about whether Megan requires permission slips for Bubby's friends, I'm concerned about Bubby himself. (Thankfully Baby Mac is not yet old enough to be on the trampoline. Or he sure as heck better not be allowed on it yet. Note to self: Ask Megan about that.)

Turns out I don't need to be all that concerned about Bubby's safety. Because despite all the times Megan, as a pre-teen and teen, complained—in unison with her sisters, of course—and told me to "calm down" or "stop freaking out" when my trampoline paranoia reached fever pitch, she finally gets it. How do I know? Because Saturday, just after she and Preston first introduced Bubby to the trampoline (and attempted a few tricks of their own as examples), Megan called me to say: "I can't believe you let us do the things we did on the trampoline, Mom."

In her voice and between the lines, the worry, fear, concern, trepidation, and unspoken WTF did we get ourselves into? was unmistakable. Call me mean but it was music to my ears.

The Curse had finally gone into effect.

And I'm not one bit ashamed to admit that so has the gloating.

I suppose tempering the gloating would be the proper tack at this point, though, so as to not tempt fate. For I'm headed to the desert later this week to babysit Bubby and Baby Mac while Megan and Preston attend a conference, and the request has been made that I help Bubby learn a thing or two on the trampoline while Mom and Dad are away.

I'm thinking I might need to write up a permission slip for Megan and Preston to sign before they hit the road and leave me in charge of Bubby's trampoline use. Just in case. I've never heard of any guarantee that, once enacted, The Curse won't backfire.

Today's question:

Describe ways you've seen The Curse in effect—whether it was placed by you or upon you.

Monkey Bubby rides poor Roxie.*In exactly two weeks I get to see Bubby! Hooray, hooray! Preston has a big conference in San Diego at a fancy-schmancy resort and Megan gets to go along.

And I get to be flown to their home base to babysit Bubby for three days, all by myself!

We've had this planned for quite some time, but I'm starting to think Megan now has a few concerns about leaving me alone with Bubby for a few days. For my sake and sanity, not his.

A recent conversation:

Me: So, did you get the toy box put together? (Santa brought Bubby a new wooden toy box that also serves as bench seating.)

Megan: Yeah, we did. <hearty chuckle>

Me: And ... how does Bubby like it?

Megan: He loves it! We have it sitting by the couch and he first used it to jump from the toy box onto the couch. Then he decided to try jumping from the couch to the toy box. From there, he figured out how to jump directly off the toybox onto the floor.

Me: <stifling my "What the hell? He's still a baby! He's going to hurt himself!" instant reaction> Oh really ... hmmmmm ...

Megan: But we LET him do that. That's just the way we do things, Mom. We let him be ... a monkey.

Me: <silence as I try to decide if my Bubby is a bratty terror who gets to run wild throughout the house or if he's a tad too rambunctious and needs to be tamed before he hurts himself ... or both>

Megan: <in her "treading lightly" voice> I'm telling you that because I just want you to know that he's allowed to do that. He gets to be a monkey in our house, and I'm sure it's going to give you a heart attack.

Me: Oh-kay ... So, does Bubby help put his toys in the toy box? <stealthily changing the subject>

Sheesh. Seems my daughter thinks I can't handle a monkey of a boy. A wild, crazy, physically daring little boy who pulls stools down on his head, rides the dog as if Roxie were a bucking bronco, and regularly sports bruises, bangs and rug burns from his acrobatics.

She thinks I'm too paranoid about kids getting hurt. I get it. I can read between the lines.

Yes, I'm a paranoid mother who suffered hysterical panic attacks at a child's slightest veer from a stationary position feared for the safety of my little ones ... and had ridiculous unfounded phobias about them falling down -- or up! -- stairs (thank God Bubby has no stairs in his house) ... and gave regular thanks that I had daughters who couldn't go out for football where they'd surely suffer concussions or worse. (Although Andie didn't fare much better with soccer; and Brianna did break bones in track; and Megan had her fingers smashed flat -- honest to God -- in a bout on the playground.)

Okay, so derring do scares me a bit when it comes to my babies.

But hey, doesn't Megan remember that we got a massive trampoline when the girls were preteens? And it didn't even have one of those safety-net surrounds! And I didn't wrap them in bubble-wrap before they climbed aboard.

See ... I can do danger!

Although I must admit: There were so many rules and regulations surrounding the use of the death trap bouncing mat of joy that it was probably not much fun for anyone -- least of all the friends and neighborhood kids who weren't allowed to even remove their shoes and pretend to set foot on it without their parents' signatures on the three-page liability release for kids who become paralyzed or die permission slip I handed out to one and all.

See, Megan. I can handle monkeys. I can do danger. It just has to be safe danger!

*Luckily Roxie thinks Bubby's hugs make up for the wild ride.

Today's question from Zobmondo's 'Would You Rather...?' board game:

Would you rather live for 10 additional years at the top of your game -OR- for 30 additional years in which you have moments of brilliance amidst trials and tragedies?

I vote for the second. I'd like as many years as possible to see how fabulously life unfolds for my children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren. And since trials and tragedies are part and parcel of life as it is now, I don't really see any need to trade in 30 years of that for 10 years of being at the top of my game.

Update

on 2010-01-07 19:27 by Lisa Carpenter

Oh ho ho!! I just got a phone call from Megan. She read this post ... and proceeded to tell me that she'd been forgetting (yeah, right) to call and let me know that soon after the conversation above, Bubby proceeded to jump from the back of the couch onto the floor and LANDED FACE FIRST, BIT THROUGH HIS LIP AND MEGAN THOUGHT SHE WAS GOING TO HAVE TO TAKE HIM IN FOR STITCHES!

So Mama/Grandma's not so damn paranoid after all, my little Meggie Beggie!

Even Preston said to Megan that evening, "Uh, maybe we shouldn't be letting Bubby do that anymore."

(Brianna voiced that maybe Megan kept "forgetting" to tell me about the incident because she didn't want to admit I was RIGHT!)

Luckily Bubby didn't need stitches nor did he break his new little teeth ... this time!