(Scroll down to watch the video of this jump).
It was another perfect day in the Central Valley of Costa Rica, our home for the past several months.
A group of expat and tourist friends decided they were going bungee jumping, and we agreed to join them.
Determined to be brave (and to get it over with), I volunteered to go first.
Attempting to avoid the butterflies in my stomach, I envisioned what I would do in just a few moments.
Stand. Walk. Step. Fly.
Except for the last part. Instead of flying, I fell - like a rock - for 242 feet, until the bungee cord jerked me like a fish on a line.
My body in convulsions, I dangle upside down wondering what I just did to myself.
Soon I’m hoisted back to the bridge where moments ago I’d taken that fatal step. The five year old child of a friend comments, “I thought you were dead.” So did I.
My husband is next, and he attacks with his usual gusto.
Hesitantly, one by one our friends follow suit. Then our daughter Kyah, having watched both parents take the plunge, announces her intentions to try.
In my mind I’m remembering what I just went through, and I’m sorely tempted to talk her out of the endeavor.
But then recalling that I’m trying to raise children who are confident and not afraid to try new things, I bite my tongue instead.
Strapped tandem to a guide, I watch her from the bridge, video camera in hand.
A crowd has gathered to watch this gutsy little girl, and a man next to me declares, “That little girl’s got more ______ than I do. She can’t be more than 10.”
“She’s four,” I announce.
The next moment she’s flipping through the air, minus any girly screams of fright.
Before long they’re pulled back up to the bridge, where the awed onlookers spontaneously erupt into applause.
A grin the size of Texas steals across her face as I nearly burst into tears with pride.
I watched her confidence grow ten sizes, and to this day she still has bragging rights - and rightfully so.
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