The house I grew up in is a little old. The front half was built in 1811, and the “new” addition was built in 1901. The floor squeaks, the plumbing’s jenky, and it’s nearly impossible to heat in the winter. But it’s a wonderful old house, and I love it.
My favorite thing when I was little was playing Run Run Jump. You see, if you opened up all the doors, the downstairs of the house made a big circle, and a hyper four-year-old could work up some pretty good speed running circles through the house. We also had bean bags in the living room, and if you lined up just right, you could run around the house, launch backward onto the bean bags, and land with a satisfying fump!
One rainy day, I got very bored. Dolls were dull, and the Legos had hurt my feet. I decided to play a game of Run Run Jump. I began tearing around the house with reckless abandon, giggling at the brilliance of my game. I worked up as much speed as my pudgy legs could manage, turned the corner, threw myself backwards, and screeched in pain.
My bean bags had turned into a vicious monster covered in fangs. My father came running to rescue me, and as he tried to dry my tears, he couldn’t help but laugh. My mother had bought a new rose bush for the yard and was keeping it in the living room until the rain stopped. My wonderful game had turned into Run Run Jump-on-the-Rosebush. I remember lying face down on the couch, tears soaking into the cushions, my father trying to stifle his laughter as he dabbed Neosporin on my poor wounded butt.
To this day I still have tiny scars all over my backside and a severe distrust of beanbags.