My grandma and grandpa bought a
Hippity Hop jumping ball over thirty five years ago. I've always called it "the bouncy ball." I remember jumping all around my grandparents' house on the bouncy ball. My siblings and cousins did, too. Eventually, the bouncy ball found its way into my family.
For about ten years, seven of our kids, plus countless other children, have had hours of fun on the bouncy ball. Bouncy balls are still being manufactured, but they ain't what they used to
be. Our bouncy ball was made of thick rubber--almost like a tire. It
was indestructible. Or so I thought. About a week ago, one of our children, who shall remain nameless, but who is our most stubborn child, decided he should poke holes in the bouncy ball with a mechanical pencil.
Momma wasn't pleased.
Daddy had to do the disciplining of said child because Momma was too mad to be reasonable. I was unreasonably angry because there was a lot of sentimentality attached to that toy. The child was repentant, but the bouncy ball is no more.
My only consolation is that I found a
Rody Horse a couple of weeks ago at a yard sale for $5. I've been wanting one of these for our kids, but I couldn't justify the price tag for just one toy. I never thought I'd find one at a yard sale. It was a God thing. Our two little boys have been having a blast with the horse.
Yet, I miss the bouncy ball. It was big enough for bigger kids to use, the Rody horse isn't. If my grandparents were still alive, I'm sure they'd be surprised, but delighted that the bouncy ball lasted as long as it did and that it provided so much joy to so many of their progeny. It's hard to let go of the things--and the people--we love.
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