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By Donna A. Renzi
 You never forget those moments when your embarrassment is eclipsed only by your fear. The elastic waistband of the obligatory blue and white striped gym suit was pinching me. Unable to perform more than a pathetic forward roll, I flung my body around the school gymnasium like a hooked sea bass, desperately trying to finish my fifth grade gymnastics routine.
Timid and unsure, I never dared to attempt the feats of my more agile classmates. I would watch in awe as they swung on bars or circled into careless cartwheels. They smiled as they cavorted on balance beams like marionettes. Not me. I was too serious for such foolhardy behavior. My two feet were better off planted on the ground, I comforted myself as I plodded through life.
Then came motherhood. We have been blessed with four children, and as soon as they could walk we enrolled them in gymnastics classes. Our backyard and basement have become their practice areas. I stare incredulously as they endlessly fling themselves into handstands. Their constant repetition isn’t done to impress or improve. They tumble for the sheer fun of it, the upside down thrill. They land laughing every time.
I stand on the sidelines, amazed at their efforts. “Come on, Mom, do a cartwheel!”
What could I say? Sorry, guys, Mom doesn’t know how. I never tried.
They keep urging me, not understanding how anyone could miss out on so much fun. Maybe they were looking for entertainment, maybe they really wanted to share the moment. Either way, something in their pleas bounced me out of my old self. Maybe I could do this. Why not?
At forty years old, I finally pushed my feet skyward. What a great feeling it was, just to let loose. My kids were laughing with me, applauding me as the roles reversed. My little ambassadors of joy, these kids melted my stiffness and pushed me outside my boundaries.
After all, I could do anything – I’m their mom. |
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