They say that it’s all fun and games until somebody loses an eye. Technically, the same applies to broken bones, gashed cheeks, poisoning, and third-degree burns.
I was recently reminded by a childhood friend that as a kid I was always in a state of disrepair; something stitched up, something in a cast. My dad, who had the task of “stitching me up” in my parent’s bedroom (he kept a medical bag of fixing supplies in the closet just for me), nicknamed me “Calamity Jane”. This makes me a little mad. I was accused of being reckless and of constantly putting myself in some kind of physical danger, when everything around me, supplied by my parents, and/or Santa Claus, was a grave source of danger. In the glaringly dangerous examples I discuss in this new series, whining to get a toy I wanted quickly turned into convulsing from its unintended effects. Let’s face it, Mom, Dad, you gave me some pretty brutal toys.
There’s a lot of talk about parents today coddling our children so much that they’re growing up into useless adults — but let’s face it: There’s coddling, and then there’s making sure your kids don’t play with toys that could maim or kill them.
I begged and begged for these, go them for Christmas. This was the single most dangerous toy I ever owned, including the ass-ripping Slip ‘n Slide.
They were desirous because they were candy-apple red and promised anti-gravity jumping, the feeling of walking on the moon. I liked the idea of bouncing around on the moon.
The jumping shoes, apparently around since the 1950s, were a pair of very heavy, thick metal shoes mounted on enormous springs. You wore them over your regular shoes. “Trampolines for the feet” they boasted. What could possibly go wrong? Put ’em on, strap yourself in and take a giant leap for mankind. There was no way to know which direction the rebounding spring would take you. It was impossible to master the shoes for more than a couple bounces before shooting off onto the pavement, into the wall, against the sidewalk or down a flight of steps.