I told her the story of our visit two months ago to M's parents' house. M's parents' living room is filled with the same furniture that was once his grandmother's. It's forever ancient, very ornate, very delicate, and very dissimilar to our lumpy, chocolate and Play-doh stained jump zone.
Somehow, E figured out that if she jumped on their couch just so, she could make the plastic-protected cushion slide across and off the plastic-protected couch base and several yards across the room. Voila! Hardwood floors = indoor slip'n'slide. Evil genius, that kid.
(To M's parents, who read here, we stopped her pretty fast. But the living room was never as fun after that.) I was about 60% mortified/40% impressed by her creativity.
E's bed at home is another delicate antique. Not the best match perhaps for a noteverstill girl, but we had it. So it's hers. She's too much girl for that bed and as such I told her once that she absolutely must not jump on it. I told her that if she needs to jump on a bed she should go jump on our bed. Sometimes, with this girl, such needs are really there.
Somehow this has translated into a free invitation: Jump On Our Bed. She's taught her sister a very exciting game called One, Two, Three, BOOM! where they jump together on our bed. Let's try to touch the ceiling, L! she encourages the one-year-old, and they hold hands and jump. Midair, they fold their legs criss-cross-applesauce and crash on the comforter. Except two days ago (which was Saturday) E forgot to hold on, and L missed the bed and crashed against the baseboard under the window. She's fine, but: oops. And then, by the way, the alarm clock blinked to 6:00am. Good morning, weekend! And it was just then, at all of 6:01, that I had the profound thought that most of parenting simply amounts to being that unprepared cartoon man sprinting back and forth across a small patch of sidewalk with an outstretched bowler hat hoping to catch the pretty lady who fell off of the Empire State Building.