The girls started their first session of fall gymnastics.
One started at 5pm, the other at 5:30pm, so leaving the house at 4:30pm to return at 7:30pm, baby in tow had more of an anxious “did I remember everything necessary to get this baby through the next three hours away from home and are my pants so low that when I try to sit on one of those plastic chairs I’ll be flashing the world my underwear?” feeling than an exciting new adventure kind of vibe.
Ellie’s class had a male coach and four kids in her group, Ellie and three boys. She had a great time.
If Hanna had been assigned to a class with a male instructor, there would have been tears. If there had been at least one boy in her class, she might have refused participation.
Hanna’s class was being instructed by a woman who appeared to be angry at life and was generally miserable about things as a whole, in particular, gymnastics.
The only saving grace was the young, spunky six year old who entered the gym, pig-tails fully clenched in her mother’s hands and was being scolded for being six.
Sometimes when you dress your child in a t-shirt that reads, “Your lips keep moving but all I hear is, blah, blah, blah” you might be the target for misdirected anger.
I spent three hours trying to feed car-seat baby a jar of green beans, more of which ended up on my white shirt and the upholstery of her stroller than in her mouth.
Hanna: Mommy, you can’t feed Chloe here. This sign says no…..fotogra….what’s this word?
Me: It says, No photography. Luckily, it doesn’t say anything about food.
I had no intentions of making a photo album of my attempts to keep Chloe busy with Cheerios and beans but I suspect by next week, there might be a second sign next to the green stroller tracks.