I’m going to take a break to talk about my Munchkin #2 kid. Years ago, I would have told you she was afraid of heights. From the time she was teeny, she didn’t like being lifted high into the air. She was a sling baby – more than either of my other kids, she nestled snuggly in a sling, comfy against my belly, and peering out at the world. Except she didn’t sleep much there – not like other sling babies I’ve seen. It took me ages to learn that my second munchkin wasn’t content to just sleep anywhere – draped across my lap or against my shoulder. She wanted space. All the bouncing and burping, rocking and cooing would just agitate her further. Quiet. Still. Open space. That’s what sent her off dreamland. From the beginning, she has seemed to need to control the movement and motions of her own body.
Munchkin #2 used to watch my hubby do this thing with her big sister where he kind of bundled her up, holding hands and feet, and swung her in big arcs through the air. #2 always wanted to try it, but would immediately cut the game short. Such a mix of delight and terror would cross her face, even though the swings weren’t anywhere as near high as her big sister got.
She was very cautious about things like swinging, or climbing, or anything that caused her feet to leave the ground. Yet, she did these things. It always seemed to be about power over her own body. She would be anxious, yet determined in equal measure.
When she was three, she insisted on taking gymnastics with her older sister. I remember watching an early class, when the kids were going to swing on the parallel bars. #2 stood with her hands planted solidly on her little hips. She watched the other kids with fierce concentration. Up they went, over the bar, a few little swings and around again. The instructor was pretty much carrying the little girls through each motion. When it was my daughter’s turn she simply shook her head.
“No?” the teacher asked. “You don’t want to do pullovers?”
“I won’t do that,” my munchkin said with determination.
“Well…” (my thoughts here – I’ve known this particular gymnastics coach for more than 20 years, and she was always thought of as the “tough one” on the block – always a reputation for pushing kids to do more than they thought they could.)
“Okay then,” the "tough couch" shrugged.
Last night I was watching my daughter at her current gymnastics class. She climbed to the high bar on her own and dropped into a foam pit below. She has recently informed me that the act of falling still terrifies her, but she does it anyway.
“It’s fun, too,” she says.
When the instructor led them over to the ropes, I felt every inch of my body tense. The rope, you see, is my daughter’s most recent hurdle. Ever since she witnessed, on her very first day of class there, another gymnast climb to the top of the rope and ring that bell, it’s been a singular focus for her. She has so desired getting to the top of that rope that she would actually break into tears of frustration on the drive home sometimes, just considering it.
I’ve done my best to be supportive. I know it isn’t a necessity for life that she get to the top of this rope, but for HER it is very, very important. So I’ve done my best to talk her through it. I can relate to the thrill of a challenge, the desire to do something just outside of your comfort range. She’s taken to practicing her gymnastics at home, always asking me if this or that will help make her arms stronger to climb that rope.
When she approached the rope, last night, I was surprised at just how anxious I became for her. I felt my breathing quicken, just watching her stand in line – staring up at that bell at the top. When her turn was up, she didn’t hesitate at all. She grabbed that rope and started frogging herself up it an amazing speed. I was afraid to blink. Just an armlength from the top, she stopped to reach for the bell. It was still out of her reach and she had let her arms straighten, her body relax a little in the process. I thought she’d lost it. So close, but so far away. But she settled herself back against the rope and pulled with all her might. Next thing I know, she had knocked that bell swinging and the chime could be heard across the gym. The rope spun around a little and she looked right at me – her face breaking into this enormous smile.
I nearly leapt out of my seat cheering. I settled for a little “thumbs up” sign which she returned immediately.
Last night’s drive home was really something. She was excited, but more than that, she seemed at peace with herself. “I really did it,” she kept saying. “I rang that bell, and I made it ring louder than anybody.”
She’s conquered the rope, now I just have to wonder… what is she going to challenge herself with next?
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You can read Munchkin #2s take on the bell here.
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