With the following equation in mind, I took the children to Bounce-a-palooza, or as Erma called it, Bounce-a-magoolah:
I was never that great with math, so I forgot to account for the other side of the bouncy house equation:
After Erma got stuck in an obstacle course that turned out to be too challenging for a first-week kindergartner, she started screaming, “HELP ME, MOMMY! GET ME OUUUUUUT!”
It was a tough Mom moment. I wish I could say it was tough because I was heartbroken for her panic and fear, but the truth is, it was tough because I could sense that everybody was looking at us and that there was a big, flashing sign above my head, telling everybody at Bounce-a-magoolah that I am the worst Mom ever.
Eventually, I talked some pre-teen boys into helping her out. “I kind of felt like a superhero when I did that,” one boy said to the other after the deed was done.
“You are TOTALLY superheroes,” I told them sincerely. Totally, absolutely, magnificently superheroes.
“Mom?” Erma said, tugging on my shirt, fresh from the ordeal of being trapped on the bouncy thing. “Can I go on that one again?”