The kids went out. I stopped myself from cautioning about the heat. They can decide for themselves how hot is too hot I decided. The back yard is not big enough for them to run so far that they'll be in danger of dehydration before they make it back to the house for water.
There was crying outside, it didn't sound to me like one of mine crying, but it was.
The unfamiliarity in the voice I heard was the distinction between actual distress and it's more common brother; indulged part-acted distress.
Enz was on the trampoline jumping in quick little hops. "Hot, Mama," He said. "My feet"
"The trampoline is burning your feet?" I asked as I made my way to him.
And it was true.
His poor little feet were so tortured, all he could do was jump again as fast as possible each time they regained contact with the surface of their heat absorbing black tormentor, the trampoline mat.
His mistreated appendages seem to be fine now. We even went out and jumped, at his request, this evening after the sun went down.
He really is a good jumper. His attempt to stretch his legs out and touch his toes at the height of a bounce was quite a good one. But from now 'till September or so I'll be sure to limit his jumping to times when the full wrath of the sun is diverted from the face of the trampoline.