The Only Gift I Could Ever Want, I Have

Six months ago I was upset at how my daughter's gymnastics coach did not elevate her to the next level. Now, I sit looking at photos of her at her very first meet a week ago, in trampoline and tumbling, at which she won a gold medal in her age group for tumbling, and fourth place in trampoline.

Sometimes things seem awful or sad, but truly, to everything there is a purpose. If she had remained in regular gymnastics, this might not have occurred. Her new coach, Melissa, is a magnificent and charming young lady, and an exceptional trampoline and tumbling coach. She herself has won many medals in competition.

Melissa introduced our gym to "TNT" and my six-year-old daughter is in their very first group along with Alaina, Natalie, Zophia, Pasqualina, Addie and Bella, other six, seven and eight-year olds. Bella is the baby, just turning five. Natalie is everyone's "mom", at 10 years old.

Every cross country meet I attend, I stand with bated breath, waiting to see my son. So excitedly, I zoom in for that perfect shot or video, and you can always hear my loud mouth cheering him on. I make no excuse as I am from NYC!

Cross country meets are a sight to behold. When I was in sixth or seventh grade my teacher asked us to write an account from the perspective of an alien viewing us on earth. If an alien could see a cross country meet, they would be very confused to say the least, and consider us to be quite ridiculous.

A group of people running and crowds, comprised of 10 times as many people, cheering them on, for just a few moments at a time, until the runners reappear once again.

Cheers, then sudden silence. You might see runners up or down a hill, or hear someone cheer as they notice them across a lawn or parking lot. This continues for a mere 20-30 minutes (or in the teens for the fast ones), save for perhaps the slower runners; and then everyone can be seen under various tents, or heading to their vehicles, headed home.

That's it. A football game, soccer game, basketball game, baseball game or swim meet takes hours. Cross country, a few moments. Most of the time it takes longer to get to the venue than the event itself! We have traveled a half hour, and we have traveled two to four hours one way. Of course the athletes might stay behind to wait and cheer on the rest of the crew and take the school bus home, but often the onlookers only remain for about an hour in total, and that is if they arrive early to settle in.

The season begins with sweltering Indian summer scorches and ends with layered jerseys and for some, beanies. I am giddy as I observe my son, dripping in sweat regardless of the weather, waving us away, unable to speak, and the other runners, some of whom show facial distress, tumbling to the ground, grabbing water, or perhaps throwing up. I understand this sport, given I also am a runner.

But these kids train from August to November here, Monday through Friday after a long school day, jogging, running, squatting, lifting. They prepare, practicing tempo runs and sprint intervals. Likely, the coaches urge them to keep breathing and never give up, as a metaphor for life, as these sports make us durable.

They run three miles a day, and then there are meets every Wednesday and Saturday. Truly inspiring.

I only run a few times a week, and not always three miles each time.

And they get to do it all over again from November to March, with indoor track and field. My son runs the 800 and 1,000 meters and relays usually but last time did a 1,400. Look at the face of the runner as Logan tries passing. Logan may or may not have passed him, but he made him nervous!

In spring it's tennis. A shout-out to all the coaches over the years: Andy, Jeff, Wally, Carmen, Chris, Nicole. Wonderful work! And all his great running mates: Dom, Mike, Christian, Julie, Violet, Sam, Zoey, and Jenna. Many are graduating this year. Congratulations! They all have become friends.

I feel proud when I participate in local races with my son, who of course finishes in half the time it takes me to do a 5K, at usually 20-23 minutes. In the last race in September, he came back to the sidelines after finishing to cheer me on. He rather looked like he was being sarcastic, clapping slowly, or at least that is how this feeble body felt. "I didn't stop. I didn't walk," I said to him, as if he were a coach, judging. I want to be like him. I feel he is thinking, "It's about time, Mom." But maybe he is thinking, "I can't believe she is doing this at sixty." If he is not thinking that, he damn well should!

I was never a tumbler or gymnast. When I get on the trampoline I have difficulty with my bladder, though it is quite fun. But when I drop and I can't get back up I laugh, and my daughter takes my hand, smiling. She recognizes that getting back up is what it is all about (in life, too)!

I strive to be like my kids. At least I try! Not a bad thing. Funny that one might think they struggle to be like their parents.

It is now the holidays again. I hug my girl, I send my son text messages with hearts that I know he will not return, at least not while he is sixteen.

I proudly display their medals and trophies. I take the pins off my son's race bibs, sticking my fingers along the way. I include the lovely encouraging notes from Carmen that she wrote to all the athletes.

I lick my finger, gently placing the pins in a plastic container; the container is full. The container shows me he has been busy running. I dedicate these efforts to my late brother Fred, who ran every day until Multiple Sclerosis had different plans for him.

All I want for Christmas, I already have. My kids.

Happy Holidays to all!

XO