The Abstracted Gymnast

She keeps falling, and getting back up, and falling, and getting up again. She stands in line and distractedly watches the other, bigger kids swinging on bars or walking on the beams while she waits her turn to do a somersault down the wedge-mat. When she does it, she clumsily crashes, falling over forwards; "so that's why they call it tumbling" I think to myself with bemusement.

I am sitting in the "observation deck" at McCracken's Gymnastics. Below me rougly 150 girls and boys from ages 3 (like The Abstracted Daughter) all they way up through high school age tumble and spin. The room doesn't need fans to circulate air; the girls on the uneven bars do the job nicely. In my left hand my Kindle rests, forgotten. Post Captain, the second book in the Aubrey-Maturin series by Patrick O'Brian, is displayed, but I don't notice as the screen saver switches on, showing a portrait of Charlotte Bronte.
Not just my eyes, but rather my whole body has assumed the role of "doting parent" as I sit perched on the edge of the bench seat in the stifling, stuffy, humid air of the observation deck. I crane my neck to watch my little daughter hop wildlyaround in a circle until corralled by her teacher.

Before she went into the gymnasium, we stood outside in line. I asked her "now what's the first rule of gymnastics?" In her chirpy little voice she replied "Don't run."
"No, honey, that's the first rule of the swimming pool. What's the first rule of gymnastics?"
She thought for a second, then: "listen to the teacher."
I nod. "And what's the second rule?"
"Be patient. And the third rule is have fun," she beat me to it. She's never had time for lectures anyway. Moments later, she went in with her seven classmates. I found myself in one of those strange moments you never pictured as a teenager pondering your own future as a parent. Watching my child walk off happily - bravely - with her peers made me fiercely proud and incredibly sad at the same time. There is no fear in my daughter's mind. There is nothing that can hurt her. It makes it easy to get her to go down slides at the playground, to get her to talk to friendly strangers at church, and to be dropped off at preschool with a happy attitude. But fearlessness will grow into empowerment and independence and self-reliance and I know - I dread - that one day she really won't need her dumb old dad very much.

She's in line now to do some sort of balance beam activity. There's a little boy in her class, he's slightly taller than her. His coordination is incredible. During warm-up he was a machine, and moved fast and skillfully, while my little one struggled to keep up and follow directions. He can't be much older than her. Am I doing something wrong? My daughter is a spit-shine short of genius...why isn't she instantly good at athletics too? The parental fear that "my child is behind" crawls into my brain and I bat it away. I'm doing everything I can, right?

Right?

The little gymnasts (they call them Tumblebugs at McCracken) disappear from sight for a while, doing some activity below me and to the right where the observation deck can't see. I try to relax and concentrate on Post Captain. Aubrey's found out his prizes were contested in court and he faces debtors prison. Maturin is leaving; his torrid love for Diana has him out of his mind. Somehow, I don't find the normally entertaining novel especially interesting, so I just turn it off again and ruminate and watch the gymnasts below.

On the drive over, my little gymnast in the making had told me that she'd prefer Mommy bring her next week. I had tried to socialize with her, to talk about her day, but she'd cut me off in the middle of a sentence, and asked (nicely) if we could listen to music. So assertive for a 3-year-old. We'd quietly sat through Lady Gaga's "Born This Way" (TAD and I happen to love dance/electronic music) and then arrived at gymnastics. Upon sighting the building, she had brightened, and begun asking me for the third time if she would have to wear her jeans over her leotard. We'd walked (I walk - she prances) inside and she'd immediately taken her clothes off so everyone could see her leotard. "Hi," she said to some man twice my size who was waiting with his kids. One of his kids was the aforementioned little boy with mad gymnastics skills. Ava tried to say hi to the little boy too, but he was moving too fast to even notice her.

The little class is weaving its way back across the floor now. The dad of the little boy, I realize, is sitting a little ways down from me here in the observation deck. He's got an iPad, and he's tapping away at some email. He glances up and sees his little blizzard of a boy and puts the iPad down with a grin. I know the feeling. The Abstracted Daughter and her classmates line up in front of a big padded block the size of a refrigerator. I watch as the first kid lays down in front of it and the teacher helps her up into a headstand.
TAD and the little boy are the last two in line. All of a sudden, I kid you not, the little boy leans over and kisses her on the cheek. She doesn't flinch. From this distance, I can't be sure, but I think I see her roll her eyes. Then he leans over and kisses her on the cheek again. She doesn't react at all. Like an ice queen, she ignores him and moves forward in line.

That's my girl.

I knew - I know - that she inherited way too many attractive features from her gorgeous mother to not draw in the boys like iron shavings to a magnet. Some day she'll come home with some pinhead I immediately hate and all a dad can do is hope the boy is a safe driver and has college plans for himself. People think it's pretty damn hilarious when they see my cute little daughter to say "Oh, I bet you are losing sleep already with a cutie like that!" The truth is, at her age the last thing that keeps me up is boys. She doesn't even understand gender yet, really. What keeps me up at night are rapists. Predators. TAD falling down the stairs. Freak car accidents. Losing my job and not being able to feed my family. You know...the fears a father has in the present. I try to let the future, however inevitable, be the future.

But if Ava decides to let that boy-ridden future wait a day longer, I'm not complaining.

After her class is over, she meets me at the door. I help her into her jeans and shoes and coat and we walk to the truck. She tells me a little about what they did. Then she reminds me that she wants mommy to bring her next week. I stifle a sigh and tell her "that's fine with me, but you better ask mommy nicely when you get home." Every sentence is a lesson. Every moment a chance to teach.We get home, and I pass the gymnast off to mommy and head to the grocery store.

As I write this now, I just feel an incredible sadness. Sad that little moments like this slip through my fingers every day. Sad that my little girl is growing up and I can't catch my breath. Sad that I make bold, arrogant statements like "I won't let parenting ruin my life." Sad that my daughter absolutely, and without bias, loves her daddy with everything in her but when she says she prefers mommy to drive her next week I can't help but resent her, and resent her mother too. Sad that minutes each day are wasted in time-out because I have so many rules in my house. Sad that my little big-hearted child gets pushed out of the way in line sometimes. Sad that I told myself I would remember this post, and I've forgotten it. Sad that I made her stay in the house while I went and checked the raspberry bushes the other day. Right now, while she sleeps upstairs, I miss her terribly.

I love my daughter, every inch of her. May she never doubt it.


_