I'm not much of a collector, but I am the proud owner of a large jar of super balls. Occasionally, I'll take one out, releasing the cooped-up concentrated essence of synthetic rubber polymer polybutadiene and start bouncing it. I'm sure a lot of people have childhood memories of losing countless such super balls while trying to see how high they could reeeeeeeally bounce and several fist shakings from passing drivers. I used to feel the world was mine if my parents gave me a coin to get a new super ball from the vending machine. I was hooked on these crazy, colourful, uniquely different toys.People were growing suspicious of my "addiction" when puberty kicked in so I had to lay low for a while. I needed a kid as an alibi and that's why I had my first at 22. I couldn't wait for Daughter#1 to grow tall enough to reach the super ball machine, place a coin and turn the knob... Had to fight for it, however, by unwrapping each chubby finger curled around the super ball. "Now, now, didn't Mommy say that these balls are too dangerous for you? Mommy will keep them safe for you for when you grow up..."
Those darn kids would get their revenge back once they could form sentences.They'd give me away as soon as the ball came rolling down the vending machine's shoot, "Hey Ma! I got you a yellow one with purple polka dots. The pretty pink one you want is too way up for it to come down". I'd smile at the other supermarketeers who'd whip their heads around searching for the adult who uses her kids as a cover. I'd shrug my shoulders and make a "I-have-no-idea-what-those-kids-are-talking-about" look. And later, in the car, on the way home, I'd have to bribe them to release those super balls in my custody.
Kids are ruthless once they find a parent's weak spot.
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