making my children jump

One afternoon, I decided I wanted some pictures of my kids jumping. Because the sun was shining and I was bored and I hadn’t played with my camera in a while and, well, just because.

Really, does there have to be a reason? I AM MOM (WITH A CAMERA)! HEAR ME CLICK!

We started out on the deck. Thataway, I could go down the steps and get a ground view of their airbornness.

They did pretty well, but I didn’t like the screen door backdrop.

Also, I wanted a picture of all four kids in a row and there just wasn’t room.

“Let’s go out to the barn,” I said.

“I don’t want to jump,” my younger daughter said.

“Oh, come on. It’ll be fun.”

“Jumping makes me hot,” she argued. “And you just get to sit there in the shade. It’s not fair.”

I hate it when my kids get all logical on me.

“I’ll give you some candy,” I wheedled. (Note to parents: when you can’t win, use sugar.)

Sugar works!

It wasn’t all fun and games, though. Even with a piece of candy dangling in front of them (figuratively speaking—I didn’t actually hang the candy from the edge of the barn roof), they still got balky. Like the infamous animal that shan’t be named but that is related to a horse.

They refused to jump in sync, and they kept shifting their assigned positions so I couldn’t see everyone.

Or they’d start jumping and refuse to stop, even when I was calling out orders.

I have a newfound respect for the people who coach synchronized diving. Or, rather, anyone who coaches anything synchronized.

A fist fight happened, of course. Because fists are how certain people in our family express themselves. And then there were tears and threats of “there won’t be any candy if you don’t get back out there and jump.”

I told some of the kids to look sulky while I ordered one to jump ecstatically.