What a Difference a Year Makes

I'm sure I've blogged on this topic before. I've probably even used this exact title before. But when you have small children, you are struck again and again by how much they grow and change (and by how much they change YOU) over the course of 12 months.

One year ago, my then just-turned-2-year-old daughter began taking gymnastics classes. And, like her brother before her, she was a trial to her teacher. Even with me by her side, she didn’t listen, she didn’t follow her classmates, she wanted to play on every piece of equipment except the one she was supposed to be playing on. I spent more time chasing her around the gym than actually doing exercises with her.

She did improve over the course of the year, at least to the point where I was able to get her to cooperate by telling her to instead of by physically chasing her around or bodily picking her up and slinging her into line with the other kids. But I couldn’t imagine what it would be like putting her in a class without me by her side after three months of being away from class.

Well, here it is the next fall, and her second week of class without me. I’d be lying if I said she was perfectly behaved. I would be lying if I said she paid attention to her teacher all the time. I’d be lying if I said she wasn’t the least focused child in the class a good bit of the time. But I’d also be lying if I said the improvement wasn’t far above and beyond what I’d ever imagined or even hoped.

She runs right into the warmup circle at the start of class. She sits when she’s told to sit (most of the time), she gets into line with everyone else (some of the time), she waits patiently for her turn (occasionally – although she does at least wait impatiently a good deal of the time), she listens to what her teacher says and tries to do it (almost all of the time).

Well, she's not standing on her dot, but she's in the general vicinity of the circle,
she's not racing around on other equipment, and she seems to be listening to the
teacher. I'd call that a win.

But best of all, she doesn’t think twice about leaving me behind at the top of the stairs when class begins. She doesn’t look up to the windows during class to reassure herself that I’m still there. And although she’s happy to see me at the end of class, it’s not because she’s upset or scared, but because she can’t wait to tell me all about all the exciting things that she just did.

What a difference a year makes. And viva la difference!!

I'm Not a Bad Mom; My Kids Just Make Me Look That Way

Today is Tuesday. I hate Tuesday. Because Tuesday is the day I take my daughter to gymnastics class. And at gymnastics class, she makes me look like a bad mom, just like her brother did when he took gymnastics at this age.

My kids are generally very well-behaved and pleasant to be around, but something about gymnastics class sends both of them into screaming, whirling dervish, misbehaving, mom-embarrassing mode. Their gymnastics teacher is incredibly patient and understanding, but even she has admitted that my children are the worst-behaved kids she’s ever had in class.

They make me look like a bad mom.

Or, at least, they make me FEEL like a bad mom. After all, what kind of mom can’t control her two-year-old for 45 minutes? What kind of mom raises a hellion who won’t sit down for even 30 seconds to listen to directions? What kind of mom has a kid who screams so loudly that no-one can hear the teacher (a teacher who is used to making herself heard in a GYM)?

I’ll tell you what kind of mom: A mom who disciplines her children, who teaches them to use polite words, who makes them say, “excuse me” when they interrupt a conversation, who puts them in the naughty chair when necessary, who reminds them to listen with their ears and not their mouths, and who does not put up with tantrums. In a word: Me. And yet, when my daughter gets to gymnastics, all that discipline and all those good manners go right out the window. And there I am, tossed once again into “Bad Mom” territory.

I hate it. It’s embarrassing.

But you know what the worst part is? The worst part is that it makes me spend more time worrying about what the other parents think and not about what my daughter could be getting out of the class. I want to quiet her down not so that she can have fun and learn something, or even so that the other kids in the class can have fun and learn something, but so that I won’t look bad in front of the other parents. And that kind of does make me a bad mom.

So today, I vow to take off my bad attitude when I put on those yoga pants, and to bring my daughter to class with my head high and my expectations low. Today, my goal will be for my daughter to have at least 5 minutes of enjoying the class between tantrums. My goal will be to think only about what she’s thinking and not about what the other parents are thinking.

Because BEING a good mom is a lot more important than LOOKING like a good mom. 

Backfield in Motion

Yesterday morning, we took Ryan to the gym for his first “Tumble Tots” class. His big sister Rosemary won the honor (or possibly drew the short straw) of being his buddy for the class. And by “buddy”, I mean “wrangler”. I wouldn’t say that it didn’t go well, but I will say that it didn’t go as intended.

The group of kids began by sitting in a circle with their parents and listening to the instructor. Except Ryan, who refused to sit but ran wildly around the gym with Rosemary hot on his heels.

Then they moved on to an obstacle course, once again listening patiently to the instructor explain what to do on each piece of apparatus, and politely waiting for the child ahead of them to finish before taking their turn. Ryan continued to run wildly around the gym, occasionally pausing to cut in line and slide down a slide, throw a hula hoop, swing on a bar, or roll down a ramp before once again running wildly around the gym.

After that, the class moved to the trampoline, all sitting carefully on the edge while each child took a turn bouncing with the instructor. Except Ryan, who struggled in Rosemary’s arms yelling “STUCK!!!” until it was his turn.

The final apparatus was the pit full of foam blocks, which Ryan at last chose to participate in. He jumped in with both feet, nearly squishing several other children in the process, and proceeded to throw the foam blocks in the air with great relish. I suspect the only reason he wasn’t running around wildly is because it’s physically impossible to run around in the pit.

And at the very end of class, as the children were lining up and sitting quietly waiting to get their coloring paper and a stamp on their hand, Ryan was…running wildly around the gym with Rosemary chasing close behind.

Lest you think I’m exaggerating for comic effect, here’s an excerpt from class:

The wonderful instructor was totally unfazed and assured us that six weeks from now he’d be sitting nicely with the rest of the class and we’d hardly remember how wild he was. I’m not sure I believe her, but what I am sure of is that we’ll be making him run around the building 15 or 20 times before his next class…