It was take your " feral mother to work" this week

"Timers"

"a repetitive exercise or drill that simulates the feel of a gymnastic skill, or the set of the skill, 

without the risk or danger of completing the gymnastic skill"

I open the door, and am immediately swept

back a decade

the little leotards dancing circles around their parents

asking, tugging, pointing

"when can i go in?"

a magical gymnastics world existing beyond the white door

while we, the grownups must watch through the observing window glass

as if we were all part of the gymnastic skill training that goes on

we did this for years.

now my daughter stands in front of these young gymnasts

she energetically raises her arms above her head

saluting unknown ghost judges to show them respect

while little girls watch to learn how, eyes on her 

wondering if they too could salute

and do skills they imagine in their daytime dreams 

just like her.

my fingers touch the cold glass, and I watch like the old days

but my daughter is now a grown woman, and coaching

she folds little bodies

like they were colorful towels

tumbling pass her in an assembly line

challenging this one, cajoling that one

leading by example 

she confidently 

extends her arms behind her and flips,

walking out of a standing backhandspring

like it was the act of breathing

the little gymnasts mouths form "o"s 

and they wonder those dreams again.

The class moves on to the vault run, 

and my daughter-teacher 

sets up a new drill, sets up a new timer

explaining to them as she moves a big blue box-like mat larger then her

repeating words "confidence is key"

telling them to run purposefully
with confidence

confidence is key

I watch as their little bodies go splat on the big blue mat

like little baby birds falling out of a nest

although it will be hard 

they 

will 

fly

but for now, each one does run 

with confidence

towards
the large blue target.

splat. splat. splat.

watching her coach these exercises, these drills,
these timers over and over again

 the repetitiveness is broken
by the voice of a gymnastics mom
she points to the window glass 

that separates us from the magical world
"my daughter is a level 4, learning new skills"
she says to the woman beside her

somewhere 

in my old mothers heart

i hear my voice softly beating in time

"mine is a level 9, a retired college gymnast

a married lady and here we are now"

but i dont speak it out loud

they wont understand

not until many years pass,

these feelings which pound inside
unknowingly 

in every young mothers heart.

then time speeds up-class is over;

my daughter-teacher leads past the other classes

an organized elegant strutting little baby bird parade

and opens the magical white door to the outside

where we are

she hands out papers, smiles and grins,

teases and makes promises

and their little outstretched wings raise up

to meet her hand for high fives

i watch from a distance in this observing room,

not wanting to interrupt

theres a timid little baby bird waiting at her side

"is your mom here yet?" my daughter-teacher asks

the lone little bird shakes her head no

but then in a scene all too familiar

to all us old and young working moms

the little birds mother bursts through the hallway,

into the observing room,

breathlessly talking to no one, every one, my daughter-teacher

"so sorry im late!"

my daughter-teacher stops her with words

"she got her round-off backhandspring today,

and she wants to show you!"

they both excitedly exit through the magical white door,

the lone little bird obediently following.

an area is cleared of mats on the spring floor

an older class stops to give them space

"go ahead!" my daughter-teacher cheers on,

stepping back to give the little bird more room

(but close enough to spot her if she falls!)

the little bird's mother gets her camera ready 

(but remember, no flash!)

slowly the little bird raises her arms

my daughter-teacher gives a hearty clap clap clapping, bending forward to encourage her flight

with a startling bolt the little bird begins to run

with new confidence

she puts her palms down side by side on the floor 

arms straight

her petite legs swinging together up,

feet landing solidly on the other side to push off again

into air, flying, 

flying backwards,

wings stretching to touch

the blue 

spring floor

(her little palms touch again!)

to push off 

flying, 

flying backwards and then

she lands. 

on both feet.

she straightens out tall and gives a shaky salute as the small crowd cheers 

seeking her mom's beaming face 

the once solemn little bird

 gives her a huge smile

so it is to be.

and my daughter, 

hands in the air cheering,

turns to the window glass, seeking also.

our eyes meet

she gives me a huge grin.

and so it is to be.

~

Thank you Annabel for letting me be your gymnastic mom all those years.

love always and a big grin back,
mom



~