My son is enrolled at a local gym class. When I signed him up in early December, it was out of sheer exhaustion and frustration trying to keep him from climbing the walls. No, I did not have aspirations of him becoming the next Paul Hamm or any other Olympic or world champion gymnast. My son was born with a mild birth defect - a chest deformity which pushes his sternum into his chest cavity. The pediatrician recommended regular playground exercise, the theory being that regular use of his chest and upper body muscles would help pull his rib bones and sternum outward. Although we are regulars at the playground regardless of the heat index in July, winter had closed around us, and gym class fit the bill for upper body exercise.
Those who know me know that I tend to err on the anxious/protective side of parenting. In any given moment I can be observed saving my son from an anticipated doom, asking him to drop the plastic screwdriver from his hand while running laps around the kitchen island, or reminding him to look out for those nasty cement parking blocks when stepping down from the sidewalk. (Note: all the while having a mental picture in my mind of the plastic screwdriver stabbed into his throat or J with a head first fall on the concrete after tripping over the block). These mental images bolster my persistent repeating of warnings until they are heeded and my son safely manages to get through the simple act of running around our house or walking on the sidewalk safely. So gym class, along with its tumbles, handstands, swinging on bars, and standing on elevated balance beams can really rub against my need to preserve my son's safety.
Yet it was this very need to keep my son strong, and his chest and heart safe, which propelled me and him into that cold, vinyl floored gym lobby that early January morning. Stereotypically, he was the only boy there. His other two gym mates enrolled for class were two little two year old girls, each donning a sparkly leotard, a common attraction to the sport for girls. Both donned them proudly, after having received them for Christmas. My son stood there watching them, garbed in loose track pants and a long sleeved dragon shirt. Yet once the class began, the playing field was leveled. A pike was a pike, a jump on the vault was a jump on the vault. That's when the magic started happening.
Turns started, first Evie, then Sadie, then J. That usually ended up being the pecking order. The girls, bursting out of their skin, wanting to be that next star, to fulfull their shiny leotard destiny onto the covers of People and Sports Illustrated, pushed to the front to try their turn at fame, at perfection, at achievement. Then came my son, who was there because his mom signed him up, and thought, maybe I'll give it a try - looks like maybe it could be fun. His caution ever present, he did the jumps, he did the tumbles, he did the crawling and jumping on the beams, despite his fears, despite probably hearing my warnings in his mind to be careful to avoid some form of ER visit. The magic became the doing.
This morning on the trampoline, the girls all competed for their turns. The task was to do a seat drop. For weeks this has been the assigned feat to accomplish, the hurdle to clear. Evie tried, then Sadie tried, completing half the assigned task of doing the pike, but getting back onto their feet was just too hard for mind and body to coordinate. Out of default, next came my son, pushed to the back again, here just because Mom brought him. The girls were off doing their free time they had earned at the end of class, the teacher watching the clock to wrap things up. Needless to say, the expectations were low - he was the boy, and class was almost over. Then, he hit his pike nicely as usual, except this time he went straight to his feet after - he did the seat pike. His look of shock was as pure as the gleaming ice in the January sun. I screamed "You did it!!" The teacher vanished and J and I became thrilled, enthralled, as he smiled so proudly and just did it again and again and again. The teacher returned and gave J a purple ribbon to freeze the date in our memory of when he accomplished the seat pike. The girls had gone, their black and purple sparkly leotards under their jackets, but what my son accomplished today shined as bright, if not brighter, than any leotard.
