Trampoline

It all started at age 3 ¾. I wanted to jump on the trampoline with my brother and all his friends. We had a rectangle tramp, like the ones in the Olympics, so you would get crazy high on it. They thought it would be pretty funny to double bounce me. I liked to jump really high and pretend I was flying, so at the time I thought I was ok with being double bounced. However, on this particular day there must have been a cross wind because I didn’t come down, where I went up. Like everything else in the 80’s, the tramp wasn’t child proofed, or in other words, it didn’t have pads. I hit my head on the metal frame and split it right open.

 My brother freeked out and I ran inside to my mom. She rushed me to Doctor Bundersons (I just gotta say that’s the perfect doctor name, I love it. He’s also the guy that delivered me 3 ¾ years prior to this moment. Small town life, gotta love it!) So doctor B hooked me up with four or five stitches and told me to stay off the tramp for a week.

A week passed and I finally got my stitches out. Unfortunately, 30 minutes after getting them out, we were back in Doctor B’s office getting new ones put in. I was so excited to get back to my pursuits of defying gravity and just got bounced funny. This time right onto my chin. Doctor B couldn’t believe it.

Another week with no jumping really bummed me out, but the day finally came that doctor B took my second round of stitches out and I was back on the tramp. Unfortunately, this time there were just too many of us on it and I was bounced right on to that gosh darn metal frame again. This time I split my head open right above my eyebrow. It was quite annoying at this point, that my favorite thing to do kept beating me up. By this time Doctor B was starting to think my mom was making these trampoline stories up and that maybe she was one of those parents that…you know…backhands their kids and such. Well, he stitched me up and I was banned from the tramp for another week. However, I wasn’t the only one banned from the tramp. My parents turned the darn thing over so no one could jump on it. I may or may not have blamed the last three incidences on my older siblings. Maybe saying that they were playing rough with me. You know how that goes.

Finally that week passed, Doctor B took my stitches out, and the tramp was right side up again. It was like a neighborhood reunion, everyone was at our house. All the neighborhood kids used to come over to play trampoline dodge ball (however, we played with a sock instead of a ball). Being that our tramp was rectangle it was perfect for this game. My small stature and mad agility allowed me to do sweet moves to miss the dirty sock that seemed to always be flying at my face. Ironically, this particular day I was flung backwards right onto that stinkin metal tramp frame again! I was flying through the air like a snowboarder hitting a park jump for the first time; board out in front, butt down, hands out rolling down the windows, you know what I mean…right? 

By now you would think I’d be crying louder than the first time, but nope, I just walked right inside grabbed the keys and said, “Mom we need to go see doctor B again.” This time, the fourth time that is, I just walked right past the front desk of the doctor’s office and into “my room.”  I was pretty familiar with the place by this time, so I knew right where to go.  I just got right up on the bed and laid there until doctor B came in to stitch me up. I didn’t cry, I think this experience is where I really gained my high tolerance for pain. Mom was freaking out though, poor lady.

Four short years after this trampoline mess I was testing out my flying skills in the living room of our new house in Phoenix AZ. I was home alone and my buddy and I were jumping from our second story banister down to our love sack. (Perfect set up for something bad to happen) Regrettably, my left arm missed the love sack and snapped. This was not good because 1. I was home alone 2. My mom was already at the doctor’s office with my little sister because an hour prior to this she broke her arm, and 3. These were the days of no cell phones, so my parents had no clue that I was running around with an extremely odd looking arm. I ran to the neighbor’s house crying and they rushed me to the hospital. My arm looked like one of those racer ski poles that has the bend in it.  

It was nasty! By this time my mom had left the doctor’s office where she originally took my sister, and was arriving at the hospital; where I just happened to be. My mom’s conversation with the hospital receptionist went a little something like this…

Mom - ”I’m here to check Kaydee Peart in with a broken arm.”

Receptionist – “You mean Scott Peart, right?”

Mom - ”No, I’m here to check my daughter, Kaydee Peart in with a broken arm.”

Receptionist – “Don’t you mean son, Scott Peart, with the broken arm?”

Mom – “No Miss, I mean Kaydee Peart, this little crying girl next to me.”

Receptionist – “Well there is a crying boy in that room right there with a broken arm also…Scott Peart, I believe it’s your son?”

Mom – “…???” (speechless)

This one goes out to my amazing Mom who took care of me all by herself each time I got hurt. My dad was out of town on business for each one of these incidents. Can you imagine having five kids to take care of during all of these accidents? You’re a trooper Mama! Thanks to you, I continue my life on wings :)

This is me on my trampoline not to long ago...I love it just as much as I did when I was 3 3/4