A Trampoline

I didn’t want to buy a trampoline. It wasn’t the money. It was the fact that just about every trampoline I’d seen in somebody’s garden looked like a sad, weather-beaten thing.

And I never saw children playing on them. I reasoned that the novelty factor was pretty strong for a trampoline - you love them for an hour the first time you get one…but are you really going to spend hour-after-hour, day-after-day on them?

And then they’re there - permanently cluttering up your garden, reminding you of the fact that you thought it’d be a good idea to get one. Throw it away? Good luck.

Of course the kids think it’s the best thing ever when you want to throw it away. And so you’re stuck with it. Forever.

A rotting husk of a trampoline - a monument to your own bad decision making, your kids’ impulsive nature, and your indulgence of that. Except it didn’t happen like that at all. My six-year-old and four-year-old spend every morning out there doing “gladiator training”.

While they flail around with foam swords, my one-year-old crawls around between them squealing with delight. The big one throws a large bouncy ball on to act as an oversized football and yet more chaos ensues. As I put the baby to bed at night I can hear the faint squeaking of springs as the eldest two bounce away the last of their energy.

Now the trampoline serves as a reminder. A permanent reminder that I am a bad judge of what we should buy: an irrational economic actor. A reminder to buy the kids things they say they desperately want.

I gazed up to the sky. I had won a victory over myself. I had learned to love big brother trampoline.

Except now my wife wants to buy the kids a big play-frame and surely they’ll just grow bored of it and the park is nearby and what’s wrong with climbing trees or the trampoline? I didn’t want to buy a trampoline. It wasn’t the money.

It was the fact that just about every trampoline I’d seen in somebody’s garden looked like a sad, weather-beaten thing. And I never saw children playing on them. I reasoned that the novelty factor was pretty strong for a trampoline - you love them for an hour the first time you get one…

but are you really going to spend hour-after-hour, day-after-day on them? And then they’re there - permanently cluttering up your garden, reminding you of the fact that you thought it’d be a good idea to get one. Throw it away?

Good luck. Of course the kids think it’s the best thing ever when you want to throw it away. And so you’re stuck with it.

Forever. A rotting husk of a trampoline - a monument to your own bad decision making, your kids’ impulsive nature, and your indulgence of that. Except it didn’t happen like that at all.

My six-year-old and four-year-old spend every morning out there doing “gladiator training”. While they flail around with foam swords, my one-year-old crawls around between them squealing with delight. The big one throws a large bouncy ball on to act as an oversized football and yet more chaos ensues.

As I put the baby to bed at night I can hear the faint squeaking of springs as the eldest two bounce away the last of their energy. Now the trampoline serves as a reminder. A permanent reminder that I am a bad judge of what we should buy: an irrational economic actor.

A reminder to buy the kids things they say they desperately want. I gazed up to the sky. I had won a victory over myself.

I had learned to love big brother trampoline. Except now my wife wants to buy the kids a big play-frame and surely they’ll just grow bored of it and the park is nearby and what’s wrong with climbing trees or the trampoline?