Swing-A-Ding-Ding

I kid you not, after yours truly's recent hyster, Jimmy warned me not to use our swing. With it hovering somewhere above or below 20 years old, he feared a bolt might give way and plop me to the ground in my delicate condition. Several years ago it did dropped our little niece. She weighed a little more than a feather and only fell a foot or so, but a warning was sounded just the same. Jimmy replaced the guilty bolt and all's been well ever since. Trust was restored, until the above said surgery.

I thought boycotting the swing was slight overkill but abided just in case; I didn't want to hear about it till the day I died. Besides, Jimmy's always right so it's easier to just comply from the start.

Caution waned for almost six weeks post-op until family came over for dinner one afternoon. That's when I caved, seeing my sister on the deck in the shade drifting back and forth like the ebb and flow of an ocean tide. By the time Dani joined her, I threw in the towel and joined the afternoon slumber. Never considering the fact that we three might be overtaxing the old original bolts, we swung in ignorant bliss...until...PLOP.

Once again Jimmy was right. My side of the swing gave way, abruptly plunging me a foot down. Fortunately all was well but the swing's days were becoming numbered, sparking a shopping spree for a new one.

Here's ole not-so faithful

repaired but cast to the pool area.

The new kid on the block,

a wooden swing that should

hold this old mama for

many years to come.

I just can't get rid of our old swing, she still swings wonderfully, not one rubber strap is broken and, how shall I say, it fits my behind like a glove. I love my new wooden lift, but it's still fun to throw caution to the wind and risk gliding on our old swing-a-ding-ding. You never know what's going to happen, which keeps things spicy and on the edge in our otherwise quiet home.