Butt bruises don’t lie.
Two days ago, I was sitting on a tiny little bicycle seat, feeling good about accomplishing some exercise. Today, I’m trying to sit gently on a bench while Fiona does gymnastics, but every time I move, it feels like that time I traded paddle licks with a two-hundred-pound college kid at a frat party on a dare.
I will neither confirm nor deny if I ever partook in such an exercise. But I will say, it took a month for those bruises to finally fade.
This is why I don’t do Jaeger bombs. They give drunk college girls bad ideas.
Greg came out of the office a little while ago and started to come talk to me, but I was on an emergency call with my mom. Or what she considers a grandma emergency anyway. She wanted to verify that I had, in fact, said the girls have been so good today they could have ice cream instead of vegetables for dinner.
If that had been true, Maura blew it by trying to pull a fast one on her Mimi.
However, I give her credit for reminding me that we’re out of mint chocolate chip, and I need to stop for some on my way home.
When I shifted in my seat to wave at Greg and subsequently winced, he laughed at me. The dirty look I shot his direction made him laugh even harder. If he wasn’t such an amazing person and I didn’t like him so much, I would have called him an asshole.
Ok, fine. I may have done that anyway.
Unfortunately, he’s still on the clock and he didn’t have time to stick around and wait for my mother to stop babbling.
And now here I sit… sucked into the reality show vortex with her again. I’m in Kardashian hell.
“He said he was going after the President if there wasn’t more equality. Can you believe that?”
“She, ma.”
“What?”
I glance at Fiona across the room, doing her best to swing on the bars. I’m thinking it’s not her best event since she keeps falling off.
“Caitlyn Jenner wants to be referred to as she,” I correct.
“She does?” For as much as my mother is obsessed with this family, I still can’t get her to figure out the politically correct way to handle the drama that comes with it.
“Yes. It’s part of the point of being transgender.”
“Oh. Well I wouldn’t know anything about that.”
She continues to blather on about more recent Kardashian drama that she refuses to admit has been played up for publicity purposes, while I continue to watch Fiona. Fi is still struggling with her swing and I can see the frustration building. Coach Zack is spotting another kiddo, so I don’t think he realizes it’s even happening.
“I worry about him, her,” she quickly corrects herself. “Caitlyn couldn’t even stand up to Kris Jenner when they were married. How is she going to stand up to a full-blown narcissist?”
“As good of a point as you have, ma,” And she really does kind of have one, “I need to go. Fiona’s having some trouble on the bar.”
“Oh no. Did she hit a mental block like you always did?”
I hope not. I don’t want her having the same struggles I do as an adult.
“Nah, she’s having trouble with her re-grip. She’s heading over to see me.”
We disconnect as Fiona gets to me and jumps in my arms, tears streaming down her face.
“Hey, now,” I soothe. “What’s going on?”
She shakes her head, her little face still buried in my shoulder.
“You don’t wanna tell me?”
Another shake. My little mini-me. When she’s ready, she’ll talk. But first she has to figure out how to explain it.
We sit and rock for a few minutes. Coach Zack quickly realizes she’s gone, and begins looking around his stations, a panicked look on his face. I wave my hand until he sees me, point at her on my lap, and flash him a “thumbs up” so he knows everything is fine. I appreciate him as a coach anyway, but his look of relief when he sees Fi with me makes me feel confident he really cares about his kids.
“I can’t do it, Mama.” Her muffled voice is full of disappointment, and I wish I could do it for her. But I can’t. As a parent, that’s a tough pill to swallow. I can’t make sure she’ll always be successful because she is only human, just like me. But what I can do is guide her. Teach her. Give her the wisdom others have given me and hope it helps her become the best she can be.
I pull her out of the embrace and sit her back on my knees. “Ok, tell me what’s happening.”
“I’m supposed to do a big swing back and forth.” She sniffles. “Three whole times. But after two times I fall down.”
“Are you doing your re-grip?”
“I don’t know what that is.” She looks at me with inquisitive eyes. It’s moments like these, when she’s engaged in learning something, that I love the most. I love watching the light bulb go on in her head when she takes the information, processes it, and learns something new.
Using it as a pretend bar, I place her hand on my forearm and demonstrate. “When you’re swinging out as far as you can, your fingers are kind of slipping. See how they moved?” She nods so I continue. “And when you swing back, as high as you can go, see how your fingers don’t go all the way back?” She nods again. This is good. She’s still with me. “When you get all the way back, as high as you can go, you let go of the bar and re-grip it as fast as you can. Like this.” I pull her hand off of me and put it back quickly.
It’s fast, but her eyes still widen. “I have to let go of the bar?”
“Not for long. It’s more like a hop. See?” I move her hand back and forth and make hopping sounds every time she lets go for a fraction of a second. “You try it.”
She continues with the motion I’ve shown her until I feel pretty confident she knows what to do. Now it’s just a matter of going for it. “You ready to go try it on the bar?”
She hesitates, but finally agrees.
“That’s my girl. I’ll sit here and watch.”
She walks slowly towards the bar, still nervous, but determined to get it right. I realize there is wisdom in the technique I taught her, and not only for athletics, but for life in general.
For the last year, I’ve just been swinging through life, trying to hold on but losing my grip. Sometimes I don’t even realize how close I am to falling. But if I’m going to be successful, I have to let go of my insecurities and my fears so I can grab onto things differently.
Coach Zack says a few words to Fiona when she gets to the bars. I see her nodding in agreement and he stands back as she climbs up on the bar and gets in position to swing. Slowly, she begins to move back and forth, but then she starts to pick up speed. It takes three or four swings, but then I see it. A hop. It’s a small one, but it’s there.
My smile is so big, I know my cheeks are going to hurt later, but there’s no stopping it as I watch her keep going. She’s swinging, back and forth, her hops getting higher and her grip getting stronger as she gets more sure of herself.
Eventually, Coach Zack stops her and pulls her off the bar, giving her a high five in the process. My baby girl is beaming. She’s so proud of her accomplishment, and why shouldn’t she be? She took hold of her fear and conquered it.
She turns, gives me a giant thumbs up, and continues to smile when I return the gesture.
What an amazing moment for both of us. My first born learned how to re-grip the bar. And I learned how to re-grip my life.