Monkey Bars

It was a beautiful spring like gift of a Sunday in January twelve years ago. Being only four weeks postpartum, I felt flabby and in desperate need to get out there and exercise. My husband agreed that we should go to a park. We packed the three kids, a picnic, a diaper bag, a blanket, a bicycle, a tricycle and the pram in the two cars. Both the Saturn and the Tempo were brimming with stuff. The park was a mile away.

Will got on his bike. Bonnie got on her trike. We put Marta in her stroller and the new “big” family began its journey around the jogging track. Now on this trail, there were fitness stations. At one, you did arm curls, another, pushups. I decided to firm my form; this would be part of the work out. Things were going splendidly. Even Will and Bonnie decided to do the sit ups with me, or at least hold my feet and count. I felt like such an inclusive all together happening Mom. My kids were counting. I was exercising. We were all out in the fresh air. Raising three kids would be a piece of cake. This felt wonderful, glorious.


Then, I came to the monkey bars. “Sher, I don’t think you should do those.” My husband counseled. I married this man for his prudence, but lacking that quality, I said something like, “Oh stop worrying! I can do it.” and swung into action. I got through four. Then I fell hard on my knee. I couldn’t stand. I started to black out. My husband had to leave me crumpled in a heap with a concerned onlooker and her very big sniffy dog while he ferried the three children back to one of the cars, flagged down a soccer coach to watch them and then return. He then carried back the bike and the trike. We were parked at the very other end of the jogging trail from the monkey bars. I had attempted to stand twice more and failed.


Lifting me up in his arms, my husband carried me across the entire soccer field saying, “Please don’t be really hurt. Please don’t be really hurt. And if you’re really hurt, I’m really mad at you.” and loaded me in the car with the kids. He drove the one car with all of us home, put the baby and toddler in their cribs for naps and turned on the TV for our oldest. He gave me two Advil and a diet coke and walked back to the park for the other car. He’s a very patient man.


The next day, the doctors drained my knee and gave me a brace for my leg so the ligaments that were torn could heal. I had to crawl down the stairs of our town home for the next two weeks with my infant in a pouch on my chest. We didn’t go back to that park again ever.


So when we went to the park for softball practice yesterday, there was an old fashioned non regulatory playground. They dove right into it but I said even as my children coveted those compelling metal ladders that go nowhere; “Don’t go on the monkey bars, they’re too high.” And naturally, one of my children did not listen. She did have the wits not to state, “I can do it.” to my face.


She’s fine, a bit of a sprain in her right hand but I’ll say it now;


“Do not go on the monkey bars.”