We just enrolled our son in his first semi-organized sport. He's built like a linebacker (an incredibly, unbelievably SHORT linebacker, but still...) and he has all the grace of a chicken with its knees tied together, but he is now a proud, preschool...
GYMNAST.
I have no illusions that he will become addicted to scissor kicks on the pommel horse or will dream of Olympic gold doing an Iron Cross on the rings. I'll just be happy if we can get through the summer with no major injuries. I really hope he understands that he is not allowed to do flips off the furniture or cartwheel down the staircase.
And I'm so very happy that he is a boy. If he were a girl, he'd be obsessed with having a closet full of sequined leotards and shiny matching hair scrunchies. Most days, I'm not sure he's aware that he has clothes on at all. His grungy t-shirts and sweat shorts will do just fine.
We watched his first class. There were only two students -- H and the boy Tim and I have taken to calling "The Monkey." Maybe some of that agility will rub off on H. We can hope. Or maybe hope not. At any rate, he seemed to have fun. He grinned the entire 45 minutes. And he learned what seems to be the most important move in gymnastics -- raising hands in the air, arching the back and smiling for the "judges." He did it after every single activity. He might have just face planted in a pile of mats, but up he popped right up with those arms held high, toothy grin prominently displayed.
Eat your heart out Bart Conner.
Perhaps the very best part of the class came a day later, when H was talking about his new sporting activity:
H: Mommy, when we going to Junenastics again?
Me: (Laughing) On Monday. And it's GYMnastics.
H: No. It's June, so it's Junenastics.
Me: (Laughing harder) So what is it going to be in July?
H: Julynastics.
Oh. Of course.
GYMNAST.
I have no illusions that he will become addicted to scissor kicks on the pommel horse or will dream of Olympic gold doing an Iron Cross on the rings. I'll just be happy if we can get through the summer with no major injuries. I really hope he understands that he is not allowed to do flips off the furniture or cartwheel down the staircase.
And I'm so very happy that he is a boy. If he were a girl, he'd be obsessed with having a closet full of sequined leotards and shiny matching hair scrunchies. Most days, I'm not sure he's aware that he has clothes on at all. His grungy t-shirts and sweat shorts will do just fine.
We watched his first class. There were only two students -- H and the boy Tim and I have taken to calling "The Monkey." Maybe some of that agility will rub off on H. We can hope. Or maybe hope not. At any rate, he seemed to have fun. He grinned the entire 45 minutes. And he learned what seems to be the most important move in gymnastics -- raising hands in the air, arching the back and smiling for the "judges." He did it after every single activity. He might have just face planted in a pile of mats, but up he popped right up with those arms held high, toothy grin prominently displayed.
Eat your heart out Bart Conner.
Perhaps the very best part of the class came a day later, when H was talking about his new sporting activity:
H: Mommy, when we going to Junenastics again?
Me: (Laughing) On Monday. And it's GYMnastics.
H: No. It's June, so it's Junenastics.
Me: (Laughing harder) So what is it going to be in July?
H: Julynastics.
Oh. Of course.
Comments
Junenastics.. Love the fact that he always pops up with a grin, too. That's awesome.
Do they have one of those foam pit things????