The Trampoline, the Timing, and the Trap I Set Myself

(A little story about early summer, mental gymnastics, and emotional intelligence in marriage.)

It was late May—the kind of Michigan evening that makes you forget how gray April was. The kids were buzzing with end-of-school energy, the grass had that newly-mowed smell that makes you feel like a responsible adult, and my husband and I made the genius-level parenting decision to buy a trampoline.

Not just any trampoline. A Jumpzilla. With the netting. And the padding. And the vague hope that this single purchase would magically entertain our children all summer while also building their character, improving their coordination, and keeping them from fighting over the last popsicle.

Anyway. There I was, standing at the kitchen sink, watching the two little blurs of joy bounce to their hearts’ content. And who’s in there with them? My husband.

In the trampoline. Shoes off. Goofing around. Cackling.

And my first thought—my actual, reflexive, embarrassing first thought—was: “Wait…wasn’t he supposed to be out at the barn getting stuff done?”

Immediately followed by: “Ugh, now he’s going to rile them up, and bedtime’s going to be a nightmare.”

Followed by: “Wait…am I mad that he’s playing with our kids?”

Because if he hadn’t gone out there—if he’d stayed in the barn or disappeared into the garage—I probably would’ve grumbled: “Why is he always working? It’s a beautiful night. He should be out there with them.”

And that’s when it hit me: I had created a no-win scenario. A husband-based Catch-22. A little emotional intelligence booby trap, set lovingly by yours truly.

If he works, I want him to play. If he plays, I want him to work. And sometimes I want both, simultaneously, without ever voicing it out loud.

In that moment—standing in a slightly sticky kitchen, watching three of my favorite humans bounce themselves into bedtime resistance—I realized just how easy it is to fall into the pattern of expecting everything. Of writing silent scripts in your head and then getting annoyed when people forget their lines.

I want to say I walked outside and joined them. I want to say I laughed at myself and offered grace and maybe a juice box. But the truth is, I stayed in the kitchen a while longer, chewing on the discomfort of my own double standard.

That’s the weird gift of emotional intelligence: the more you notice, the more you notice. And noticing doesn’t always feel good. But it does move you forward.

So if you’re out there, mentally reviewing your own internal contradictions, just know—you’re not alone. Sometimes the trampoline is the tool, the trap, and the teacher.

And sometimes Jumpzilla delivers more bounce than you bargained for.

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