the girl on the trampoline

A friend took this picture of Greta on a trampoline at someone's house. She absolutely loves the trampoline, loves having one at our house, loves the feeling of jumping. Watching her, you understand that the joy of bouncing is axiomatic. It's just so simple and fun, slipping the surly bonds of earth for an instant, springing up and down to a greater degree than gravity and your own legs could take you.

Look, she's going to learn to read and write. Face it, she's going to have plenty to eat and wear. But one of the great duties of parenthood, one that is, unlike those others, very difficult in America right now, is to let her have a blast — to find a way not to get in the way of sheer joy.

This all helps me put a finger on why I've always been slightly creeped out by the elegaic approach to childhood in stories like The Velveteen Rabbit and Peter Pan and songs like "Waltz for Debby." They're getting it all backwards: being a kid is a drag in that you're constantly thwarted, constantly reined in, constantly on someone else's agenda — but eventually you lose that. You don't ever have to lose the sheer joy and thrill of being in a body and seeing things and hearing things and running and jumping.

Fly, my dear one! Soar and dream, work, achieve, live, jump.