Could We Maybe Call It Something Else?
Pete signed Cassie up for gymnastics. This kind of gave me the willies. I guess the picture in my head of "gymnastics" is a bunch of skinny, snotty little girls with perky ponytails and lip gloss whizzing around in hideously sporty bodysuits and making fun of the halt and the lame. Insert sweet, earnest, soft, klutzy Cassie into this picture, and... eeuughh. Not good.
See, there's been this ongoing concern about Cassie's gross motor development. At both her 2-year and 3-year check-ups, her pediatrician was concerned that her gait looked kind of funny. The teachers at preschool have mentioned that physically she's not really at the level of other kids her age. At home, she trips over her own feet. She even got an evaluation by a physical therapist who thought maybe one leg was longer than the other. She's clearly a bit pigeon-toed (like her mama). So in discussing the issue with the pediatrician, we agreed to schedule another appointment with an orthopedist. (Pete took Cassie the first time a year or so ago, but the guy they saw kind of brushed them off without even really doing a full exam, treated the report of the physical therapist's concern with derision, and was generally just an arrogant asshole.) And the other half of the plan was to get her in to some kind of extracurricular activity that would help with coordination.
Pete had mentioned swimming lessons, which sounded great, and I was also thinking maybe dance classes (to me, infinitely more gemutlich than gymnastics, probably because the connotation is artistic rather than athletic). But I was dawdling about signing her up for anything, partly because I still don't know what my schedule is going to look like, and partly because spending any money makes me so anxious these days. And then, a couple weeks ago, Pete announced he'd signed her up for this gymnastics thing. And so what could I say? Well, I guess I did kind of make some doubtful, "we can just wait and see how she likes it, right?" sort of noises. But basically, he'd risen to the parenting task, and I hadn't, so we'd do it his way.
Pete took her for the first class last week. It was the day of my job interview, so I was distracted enough not to think about my tender child being subjected to the terrors of a commercially offered gym class (projection, much?). But then when I got home, I remembered all in a rush, and anxiously hit Pete and Cassie up for their verdict. Pete was casual, nonchalant: "It was good." Cassie, on the other hand, was bouncy and very enthusiastic, though I wasn't quite able to follow the whole narrative. Something about frog jumps and walking like a jaguar and having cookies on your arms. I was unspeakably relieved.
Later, after Cassie was in bed, Pete told me about getting to see another of Cassie's peccadillos in action--her preschool teachers had mentioned in our parent conference that while she is utterly reasonable and tractable when you ask her individually to do something, she often seems oblivious to the fact that she is included in "everybody" (as in, "everybody sit down on the rug now" or "everybody put away the blocks"). Pete said it was the same way in gymnastics--she would wander vaguely off until specifically and individually asked to join the group, at which point she would immediately and readily comply. He said that the instructor was not only tuned into this but also articulate about it in a little, informal end-of-class check-in, as well as entirely matter-of-fact and non-judgmental. Well okay, then, I thought. Okay.
This week, Pete was invited to lunch by the Dean, who is apparently going through and meeting with faculty and generally trying to make nice (there are some changes going on in the institution, and faculty are apparently feeling pretty skittish in some quarters). The wisdom is that if you're invited to lunch by the Dean, you go. The problem was, it was on a Wednesday. Daddy-Cassie day. Gymnastics day. So I was called upon to go beyond feeling a distant relief and grudging acceptance, and to participate materially in my daughter's going to gymnastics. I would give her a ride, and then sit outside the gym on the other side of the one-way mirror and watch it all happen.
I dressed Cassie in the requisite comfortable clothes (no leotards involved, blessed be). I made sure she peed before we left. For myself, I brought cinnamon tea and the New Yorker. As it turned out, I barely made it through half an article. The spectacle of one's own child and four others of similar ages jumping around in a primary-colored gym is surprisingly riveting. It also seems that Cassie has made some real strides in gross motor development lately. Running around the mat during the beginning warm-up, she looked graceful and at ease. She frog-jumped and bear-walked seemingly effortlessly. She's still excessively cautious (again, like her mother), needing to be coaxed through the small tunnel, and approaching the inflated bouncing mat shyly and gingerly before every one of her six successful times across it. And there were certainly things that she looked awkward at. But she didn't look out of place with the other children (unfortunately, that was left to Angie, the very pudgy little girl who had trouble even mustering a jump on the bouncing mat). She looked fine. Age-appropriate. And she looked like she was having a pretty good time.
So who knew that this would be an opportunity for my personal growth. Just as Pete manages to pretend that he does not have a spider phobia in front of Cassie, I will keep my inner writhings about the idea of gymnastics to myself. And maybe I'll even learn something.
See, there's been this ongoing concern about Cassie's gross motor development. At both her 2-year and 3-year check-ups, her pediatrician was concerned that her gait looked kind of funny. The teachers at preschool have mentioned that physically she's not really at the level of other kids her age. At home, she trips over her own feet. She even got an evaluation by a physical therapist who thought maybe one leg was longer than the other. She's clearly a bit pigeon-toed (like her mama). So in discussing the issue with the pediatrician, we agreed to schedule another appointment with an orthopedist. (Pete took Cassie the first time a year or so ago, but the guy they saw kind of brushed them off without even really doing a full exam, treated the report of the physical therapist's concern with derision, and was generally just an arrogant asshole.) And the other half of the plan was to get her in to some kind of extracurricular activity that would help with coordination.
Pete had mentioned swimming lessons, which sounded great, and I was also thinking maybe dance classes (to me, infinitely more gemutlich than gymnastics, probably because the connotation is artistic rather than athletic). But I was dawdling about signing her up for anything, partly because I still don't know what my schedule is going to look like, and partly because spending any money makes me so anxious these days. And then, a couple weeks ago, Pete announced he'd signed her up for this gymnastics thing. And so what could I say? Well, I guess I did kind of make some doubtful, "we can just wait and see how she likes it, right?" sort of noises. But basically, he'd risen to the parenting task, and I hadn't, so we'd do it his way.
Pete took her for the first class last week. It was the day of my job interview, so I was distracted enough not to think about my tender child being subjected to the terrors of a commercially offered gym class (projection, much?). But then when I got home, I remembered all in a rush, and anxiously hit Pete and Cassie up for their verdict. Pete was casual, nonchalant: "It was good." Cassie, on the other hand, was bouncy and very enthusiastic, though I wasn't quite able to follow the whole narrative. Something about frog jumps and walking like a jaguar and having cookies on your arms. I was unspeakably relieved.
Later, after Cassie was in bed, Pete told me about getting to see another of Cassie's peccadillos in action--her preschool teachers had mentioned in our parent conference that while she is utterly reasonable and tractable when you ask her individually to do something, she often seems oblivious to the fact that she is included in "everybody" (as in, "everybody sit down on the rug now" or "everybody put away the blocks"). Pete said it was the same way in gymnastics--she would wander vaguely off until specifically and individually asked to join the group, at which point she would immediately and readily comply. He said that the instructor was not only tuned into this but also articulate about it in a little, informal end-of-class check-in, as well as entirely matter-of-fact and non-judgmental. Well okay, then, I thought. Okay.
This week, Pete was invited to lunch by the Dean, who is apparently going through and meeting with faculty and generally trying to make nice (there are some changes going on in the institution, and faculty are apparently feeling pretty skittish in some quarters). The wisdom is that if you're invited to lunch by the Dean, you go. The problem was, it was on a Wednesday. Daddy-Cassie day. Gymnastics day. So I was called upon to go beyond feeling a distant relief and grudging acceptance, and to participate materially in my daughter's going to gymnastics. I would give her a ride, and then sit outside the gym on the other side of the one-way mirror and watch it all happen.
I dressed Cassie in the requisite comfortable clothes (no leotards involved, blessed be). I made sure she peed before we left. For myself, I brought cinnamon tea and the New Yorker. As it turned out, I barely made it through half an article. The spectacle of one's own child and four others of similar ages jumping around in a primary-colored gym is surprisingly riveting. It also seems that Cassie has made some real strides in gross motor development lately. Running around the mat during the beginning warm-up, she looked graceful and at ease. She frog-jumped and bear-walked seemingly effortlessly. She's still excessively cautious (again, like her mother), needing to be coaxed through the small tunnel, and approaching the inflated bouncing mat shyly and gingerly before every one of her six successful times across it. And there were certainly things that she looked awkward at. But she didn't look out of place with the other children (unfortunately, that was left to Angie, the very pudgy little girl who had trouble even mustering a jump on the bouncing mat). She looked fine. Age-appropriate. And she looked like she was having a pretty good time.
So who knew that this would be an opportunity for my personal growth. Just as Pete manages to pretend that he does not have a spider phobia in front of Cassie, I will keep my inner writhings about the idea of gymnastics to myself. And maybe I'll even learn something.
posted by Rosie Bonner at 9:49 AM
2 Comments:
Maybe we could call it "that Wednesday activity where Cassie goes and has a good time"?
I am so pleased that both Cassie AND Mama enjoyed the latest installment of the ativity formerly known as gymnastics.
Yeeha.
xxx
aka Marina
Sitting in front of a commercial dryer, watching colorful socks tumbling, tumbling by is something I can do for hours. Well, actually, about 39 minutes. I think it's a wiring thing for me. I can imagine how riveting it might be if I loved one of those socks more than anything in the world. I am surprised you made any kind of dent in the article at all.
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