One of the perks of living out in the country is I have a massive yard. 20 acres to be exact. Enough space that I can fulfill my desire to run through the woods buck naked when ever the desire hits and almost enough space to ignore the cries of my children as they beat each other with sharp pointy sticks.

Because of the massive size of my yard, we have more than enough space to fill it with large toys to distract my kids from video games, the computer, television and the shiny glint of my boob rings as I let my inner nudist run wild.

We have the pool, a swing set, the requisite sandbox for the neighbourhood cats to pee in, and my favourite, a trampoline.

The trampoline is nestled in a crook amongst the trees, invisible from neighbours but not far from the front of the house. We placed it there so I could putter in my large perennial flower bed or relax on the nearby gliding swing while my children jump around and try to break their necks. Because, you know, it’s more comforting to be able to witness them snapping like twigs while I pull weeds.

We bought the trampoline against the advice of our pediatrician and Bug’s neurologist. We listened to their cautionary tales of woe, weighed the statistics (in our area alone, between 80-100 children a year arrive in the emergency room with serious head trauma due to the big bounce of the tramp) and then quickly marched our parental asses to the nearest sporting store and slapped down 600 smackers to buy the biggest trampoline we could find.

We like to live dangerously around here. Heh.

By far and away it was the best 600 dollars we ever spent on the kids. Not counting for food and diapers of course. Fric and Frac loved it and practically lived within it’s mesh walls for four summers straight. They had a whole little universe with a spongy floor created inside that trampoline.

Not to mention I was the coolest aunty in the world whenever one of my nieces or nephews came over to visit. Heh.

Some of my most cherished memories I have of my Bug are sitting on that trampoline and double bouncing him as he sat there and giggled and bumped around while giggling like a mad man. Or asking my husband where our son was after he placed him in there for safety (like a big play pen) as he mowed the lawn and forgot about him and I found Bug sweetly sprawled out on the tramp, snoring softly as the birds twittered in the trees around him.

(Ya. We are totally in the running for Best. Parents. Evah!)

Still, the time of the trampoline wonderment is quickly passing. The kids no longer bounce their day away on it, and Bug is bouncing in the big trampoline in the sky. It’s time to move on and make way for bigger and better toys.

Soon the only people who will be enjoying the spring of the tramp will be Boo and I and our friends, when we drunkenly stagger out to it after a game of cards and try and recapture the lost glory of our youth with liquid courage and beer induced stupidity.

(Not that we’ve ever done that before. Heh. I’m just guessing.)

I was out, swinging gently on my swing, next to the trampoline, the other day, watching the leaves sway to the gentle breeze and watching my neighbour’s horses graze across the road. It was a beautiful summer evening and I was reliving all my trampolining memories with nostalgia when suddenly the kids came barreling out of the house and spotted me, sitting quietly in the trees.

Translation: there was no way I could make a quick escape. I was found. Damn it.

Climbing into the trampoline, they started jumping around like monkeys and pretending to be ninjas while shouting, “Mom! Look at this!”, “Mom! WATCH ME!”, “MOM! You’re not LOOKING!”, “MOM! MOM! WE’RE GOING TO KEEP CALLING YOU AND DRIVING YOU INSANE UNTIL YOU SHOW US A SLIVER OF ATTENTION!”

I did my best to fake interest. But to be honest, once you’ve seen one kid nard the other in a ninja kick gone wrong, you’ve seen enough. Still, I mustered false enthusiasm as they bounced higher and higher and competed with one another to see who could do the best back flip, triple sow cow whatchamacall it.

“Mom, come and jump on the trampoline with us!” Fric called.

I deferred, calling out that I was just happy to be sitting on my arse, watching them and soaking in their glory.

“Mom! Come and bounce! It’s fun!” Frac called.

I just shook my head and politely declined.

“MOM! Come play with us!” Frac called again. Again I shook my head and smiled and wondered how I could make a quick escape back into the sanctuary of my house without them following me in. (Cuz I’m thoughtful like that.)

“Oh, don’t bother, Frac,” Fric called to her brother as she bounced up and touched the clouds. “She won’t come in. She’s too old anyways. She’d probably break her hip or something.”

Such a cheeky child. I don’t know where she gets that from. Must have inherited it from her father’s side of the family tree.

(Stop laughing.)

Well, with those words, the gauntlet was tossed. Dammit. I am not old. I’m in my prime. And I’ll be damned if I’m going to let some two-bit blonde 11 year old sass me like that and get away with it. It was time for the DOUBLE BOUNCE. That’d teach her, I thought as I clambered up the ladder and onto the trampoline.

The kids giggled with delight and things got a little hairy for a few minutes as they tried to take their mother down. However, they sorely underestimated my own years of experience on the trampoline and maybe forgot that I have about fifty pounds on them. Heh.

It wasn’t long before they were begging for my mercy. Just as they should. Heh.

It also wasn’t long before I realized I may not be as young as I once was. While I could still out trick them on the trampoline and bounce so high they almost touched the moon whenever I landed, there was the small problem of my bladder.

A bladder that had been used and abused the last decade by having nine pound babies sit on it while I gestated it and they used it for a kick-boxing bag.

A few bounces in, and I knew my bladder was no longer my friend. In fact it was public enemy number one every time I landed. Between my uncontrollable laughing and the pressure of my springy steps, my bladder betrayed me, one dribble at a time.

Bastard.

I tried to act nonchalant. I tried to pretend that every time I bounced a few more drops didn’t just squirt out like someone squeezing a lemon. But I knew, rapidly, that the time was coming when the flood gates would open and soon my children would be bouncing upon a wet black surface.

I knew I had to call it quits or go find a diaper. One or the other.

Damn it sucks getting old. So much for all that time spent doing my kegels. There was no amount of squeezing pelvic muscles tightly to contain the yellow flow of urinary love.

I hobbled to the net, trying not to bounce, trying not to think of the sounds of water rushing, when my kids stopped bouncing and asked where I was going, with a disappointed tinge to their voices.

“Um, you guys were right. I’m old. I hereby bequeath you the title of Best Bouncers and bow down to your greatness. I’m going in,” I covered while trying really hard not to hop up and down as my bladder screamed at me for release. This was one situation where that would decidedly not help.

I should have just kept my mouth shut and waddled out while I could have, only slightly damp between the legs and dignity intact. Shoulda, woulda, coulda.

My demon spawn, intent on terrorizing me until I’m toes up in the ground, took one look at each other and read the other’s mind, smiled evilly and crept towards me.

“Stay back,” I warned. “I need to get out.” I struggled to find the escape hatch in the net while keeping my balance.

They cackled maniacally and I knew I was in deep shit. Or deep urinary waters, as it were.

With a great big laugh, they jumped as high as they could and landed near me, sending me flying. Just as I landed from one bounce the other sent me flying again.

It was the like the little dutch boy pulled his thumb from the dike. My bladder called me a nasty name and opened the flood gates.

I lay there on the floor of the trampoline, laughing and gasping and the kids crawled over to me giggling. “Okay, guys. Enough,” I tried to sound stern. Now I officially no longer had to pee, but had to change my pants.

“I’ve gotta go. Let me out,” I begged, as I crawled towards the exit.

Just then Fric noticed the wet spot on the trampoline and squealed in disgust. Then she noticed that my pants were looking a wee bit wet and her sharp brain put two and two together.

Howling with glee, she called to her brother, “Look Frac! Mom peed herself.”

Cuz I needed the public service announcement. My mortification levels weren’t near high enough. I needed two punks to point out my pissy problem.

“Ya, ya,” I shot back. “I had an accident. Thanks to you two.” And then I hot footed it into the house as they laughed like two firm bladdered loons at their poor infirm mother.

A few minutes later, I was dry, but my ego was still bruised. Fric and Frac came back into the house, trying to stifle their giggles and the look of youthful superiority on their faces.

“We’re sorry Mom. We didn’t mean to make you pee. We should have been more careful,” Frac condescended to me.

“Ya, Mom. It’s not your fault your body is falling apart,” my lovely daughter piped up. “Come back out to the trampoline and we’ll play nicer. Besides, your tank has to be empty now,” she added evilly.

Aw shucks. I can tell you I was just overwhelmed with parental love at that moment. Love I would have liked to express by wringing their lilly white necks like chickens.

“Um, no thanks. I’ve had enough. Now go play before I make you hand wash my dirty laundry,” I threatened.

My children, obviously don’t fear me. Because suddenly, they burst out laughing and my daughter gasped, “But Mom! We brought you something that could help you!”

And then they tossed a diaper (kept in the car for visiting babies) in my lap.

“This ought to help you!” And then they ran away like laughing lunatics, enjoying my pitiful pisser problems.

Hahaha. I was so amused.

So amused I chased them outside and soaked them with the hose. While sitting on them and tickling until they gasped for mercy and threatened to pee their pants. Take that you little beyotches! Heh.

The lesson of the day: Avoid trampolining if you’ve ever squeezed out multiple children through your lovely lotus of love. Remember you are OLD. Or at least your bladder is.

And always make sure you can run faster than your children to mete out just desserts.

Now excuse me. I’ve got some diaper shopping to do. If you see me, now you’ll know why baby’s got back.