The Foam Pit of Death.

Yesterday one my favorite little people had her 4th birthday party at a gymnastics place. There were springy mats and big things to climb over and it was basically kiddo heaven.

My little boy had SO much fun running around and all was well until (dun dun dun) … the party moved to the ginormous foam pit.

Theoretically, this should have been the most fun part of the day. In fact, I’m pretty sure it was for everyone except for me. I’m one of those people who could never get on and off of a horse gracefully, or a Seadoo for that matter. It seems like in both cases (horse and Seadoo) the thing I was trying to climb on top of would keep moving around and I would just slide right off.

I could never do a cartwheel, I have trouble hopping up onto anything without looking like a struggling beetle. I’m simply not graceful. However, for some reason when I saw my son looking up at me from the foam pit with this worried look on his face, I didn’t think about my clumsiness.

I jumped in to “save” him. Here is what THAT looked like.

And then, of course, I couldn’t get out. The more I struggled, the deeper I sank. It felt a little too quicksand-ish for my comfort.

To make matters worse, there was a gaggle of adults standing around giggling at me. I am still mad at Husband, who stood on the other side of the pit and refused to walk around to my side and help pull me out. The GRANDFATHER of the birthday girl, bless his heart, was the only one who tried to help, but he eventually gave up and left me to my doom.