Motherhood | Page 11 | Minivans Are Hot

A Wisp of a Girl

June 16, 2011 by Kelli

I see her clearly – a wisp of a girl. Thirteen. Awkward. All knees and elbows, teetering between innocence and angst. She is loved well, but a certain enemy awaits. She doesn’t know it and isn’t prepared for it. And she falls.

“You’re fat,” someone says to her. The wisp of a girl, without an ounce of fat on her body, laughs. Then she wonders.

I see her clearly – a wisp of a girl. She’s looking at a magazine and for the first time notices shape. Long, tall, thin. Is that perfection? She studies the mirror and her eyes cloud. She knows the Truth. She’s heard it a lot.

Fearfully.

Wonderfully.

Image.

God.

Made.

Like the whisper of wind through tall grasses, these words float across her heart. But this time, another wind, less gentle, rough like that of a tornado tears through her.

Ugly.

Fat.

Not perfect.

And she believes it, the wisp of a girl.

I see her very clearly – a wisp of a girl. She is older now, having grown through the awkwardness that defines junior high. She is beautiful, but she doesn’t think so. Though she has been loved well, there are misguided comments from those who just don’t know better. The hormonal teenage boy whose image of perfection is more skewed that her own. “You’re not super skinny,” he says, and he’s right. The wisp of a girl has developed a muscular physique – strong, lean…she’s not the waif that defined beauty in her generation.

The wisp of a girl also replays the voice of her coach over and over, like a broken record. “You sound like a cow when you run.” It was a comment made in passing – lighthearted and teasing. But despite all that she knows to be true:

Fearfully.

Wonderfully.

Image.

God.

Made.

She believes the other voices – the louder voices. Not perfect. Not skinny. Cow.

I see her, the wisp of a girl. She is allowing herself to be defined by the louder voices now. The sound of the wind in the grasses is almost totally snuffed out. In it she hears words like disordered and dangerous. The wisp of a girl is getting lost. Does she hide this shame or wear it as a badge for attention? She doesn’t know. If she advertises, someone might take the shame away from her. So she tries to keep it hidden. But she’s never been good at keeping secrets and before long the wisp of a girl is in a counselor’s office. Tears. Shame. Frustration.

The wisp of a girl.

I see her now, the wisp of a girl. She’s away from home, away from accountability, away. College. In the quiet of night, the tornado rips through her mind and her heart and she can’t seem to shake the destruction it causes. She’s gotten better at hiding it, this wisp of a girl. But the devil isn’t gone completely. He’s still there, waiting. Comparing. And the wisp of a girl, still small, wants only to be smaller still.

This wisp of a girl is so loved, so poured into, that a new beast begins to take over. Guilt. Now more than ever, she knows the Truth.

Fearfully.

Wonderfully.

Image.

God.

Made.

She knows this, and she believes it. But…

I see her now, the wisp of a girl who’s grown into a woman. She’s in a white dress and standing at the end of the aisle is a man who loves her completely. He loves her perfectly. He thinks she is beautiful – fearfully, wonderfully beautiful. Perfect. And she knows it, but she doubts. She doesn’t know why, but she still doubts. The tornado is strong still. And the inner torment brings even greater shame.

Until…

The wisp of a girl cries out to Jesus. It’s not the first time she’s done so, but it’s the first time she’s felt total and complete surrender and, for the first time, the tender whispers drown out the tornado of lies. In one brief moment, the girl is healed.

Miraculous.

Sometimes I still see her, that wisp of a girl. I stand before the mirror and look closely and the tornado winds swirl. I’m not who she was, but she is who I am today. The doubts like to surface every once in awhile, reminding me of the wisp of a girl who was so innocent, so naive, so fooled. But the healing experienced that day years ago is the constant that keeps me going. The whispers are louder and greater and Truth reigns leaving me to rest in healing.

I watch her now, my wisp of a girl. Innocent, beautiful, lovely and perfect. In the stillness of the night, I whisper prayers over her, for her. In the silent black, I whisper my prayers like the wind across tall grasses, a hedge of protection that I hope keeps the voices of dissent away from her heart. Protection. Love. Truth.

Fearfully.

Wonderfully.

God.

Image.

Made.

These are the things I want my wisp of a girl to know and embrace.

Filed Under: faith, Motherhood Tagged With: faith, Motherhood

Living Life: Practicality vs. Wisdom

June 14, 2011 by Kelli

There’s a certain thing that happens when you become a parent. It happens in different degrees and forms for everyone, but we all experience this phenomena:

We become practical.

It’s just natural for a certain amount of practicality to set in once that bundle of joy lands on your doorstep. Suddenly life takes on a whole new meaning. That money you used to spend on late night Sonic runs now gets applied to diapers or formula or a set of plastic keys for your little one to rattle. And you forget what it was like to dash out for a snack at 11:00 at night anyway because, you know, practically speaking it’s not wise to leave the baby home unattended.

Practicality.

Where life was once an adventure, now you have to think about jobs and income and houses and schools. You have to consider how your decisions will affect not only yourself or your spouse, but also your child or children.

Practicality.

Some people are very good at remaining spontaneous, even with children in tow. Have you heard about the family that is driving around the world, living nomadically, raising their children on the road? They’ve been on the road for 11 years, all four of their children born in a different country. I don’t desire that life, but I envy their courage. What they’re doing isn’t practical, but it’s pretty dang cool.

Or this family, whom Lee met recently on an airplane. After adopting a little girl from China, they felt a strong prompting from the Lord to return to their daughter’s birth country and open up an orphanage for special needs children. So they went. They packed up their three young children, sold all their possessions and went.

“What organization did you go with?” Lee asked.

“No one,” came the astonishing reply. “We just asked the Lord to provide and He has.” Through charitable donations, they have raised enough to build a five story building where they currently house 34 children with various special needs from cleft palates to cerebral palsey. And they’ve never asked for a cent.

That’s not practical. But it’s pretty dang spectacular.

I used to fancy myself a bit of an adventurer. I didn’t think twice about hopping on a plane as a 20 year old and exploring the former Soviet Union on my own. I didn’t flinch when I spent 36 hours on a train to Prague by myself, half the time trapped with a horny Iraqi German (I know…). I relished walking the streets of London by myself.

When Lee and I went to Europe last year, I once again found my adventurous roots. I loved not having a plan, living in the moment, exploring, living.

But I’ve felt trapped in practicality for awhile. This isn’t a bad thing, in some regards. Obviously parenthood requires a certain amount of practicality. We have to provide for our children. We have to give them stability and they do need a certain amount of material possessions to feel secure. Of course, our Western world children (as I’m sure yours as well) have far more than they need for security and stability, but as a parent I want to give them good things. Just as I know the Lord wants to give me good things.

But I’m a little tired of feeling held back by practicality. Because there’s a very fine line between practicality and fear. And I think that sometimes?

I blur that line.

I’m not going to act on passion because I tell myself it wouldn’t be practical for my family. But really, I’m just too scared to try it. I’m not going to follow a dream because it would be terribly impractical to do so. ‘Fraidy Cat! As a couple, Lee and I always talk about all the cool things that we’d like to do with the kids and expose them to, but most of them seem too lofty and impractical to really pursue.

We’re scared.

What will people think? What if it takes us out of our comfort zone? What if we fail? What if it requires us to leave all that we know? Where is the practicality in that?

Here’s the thing: I don’t think God calls us to be practical. I think He calls us to be wise. We are not to live in fear. “Do not fear, for I am with you; Do not anxiously look about you for I am your God.” Isaiah 41:10. We are called to wisdom, not practicality. Men are called to provide for their families, and that will look differently for everyone. For some, that means a stable job in a good home where they can minister to, and meet the needs of, those in their local community. For others still, that means selling all you have and leaving.

One of those scenarios is practical, one is not. But for the two men who are guiding and leading their families according to God’s calling placed in their hearts – both are wise.

Does that make sense?

So Lee and I together are working on, and learning, to let go of the shackles of practicality.

Walk in faith.

Live in wisdom.

Cry out to Jesus.

Do not be afraid.

That last one’s a doozy.

Filed Under: faith, Family, Lee, Motherhood Tagged With: faith, living by faith, Motherhood, practicality

My Montreal Post

June 6, 2011 by Kelli

What if you and your kids could all enjoy movie night together?

It’s a scene that is familiar to all moms. You sit down on the couch with your young ones, excited to enjoy a little downtime together. You flip on the TV and begin channel surfing, looking for the perfect program to all enjoy together. Given the night, you can flip through all 562 channels and not find a single appropriate program.

Because, let’s face it, we can only watch America’s Funniest Home Videos so much before our brains start to melt. Am I right?

If, on the off chance, you happen to catch an evening where there are one or two reasonable shows on for your young children, you will likely find yourself scrambling for the remote at some point during the commercial while screeching at your bewildered children to close their eyes. Whether it be an advertisement for a scary movie or a Hardees commercial, little is safe on TV these days.

That’s why I’m ~~happy~~ thrilled to announce a new movie coming out August 6 as part of Walmart and P&G’s series of family friendly movies.

Want to read more and see my interview with Christine Baransky? Head over to 5 Minutes for Mom and check it out!

Filed Under: Motherhood, the boob tube Tagged With: Family Movie Night, Motherhood, P&G, television, Walmart, Where is Simon Miller?

One more year

June 6, 2011 by Kelli

I am officially one more year older as of Saturday. I am 29.

Stop laughing.

I have to tell my children that because the two youngest can’t say their “Th” sound, which means “Th” sounds like “F” so when they say my age they place me well into a decade that I’m not prepared to enter.

When I was a 19 year old college girl, I began dating a boy who was, at the time, a senior. One night as we sat in his apartment, I asked him how old he was. “23,” he replied. And I almost had a heart attack because OMG 23 was so old.

One year after marrying my husband, we headed over to the home of a couple who was one life phase ahead of us. They had three young kids, a big house and were everything we thought we wanted to be. It was my birthday. “How old are you today?” they asked.

“23,” I replied. And they laughed. “Do you remember 23, babe?” she asked her husband.

“Barely,” he replied and I laughed along with them but for a different reason because OMG 23 felt so old.

Shortly thereafter I began having children. And I waddled around, 25 and knocked up. Feeling so old. Despite the fact, however, that I looked to be no older than a teenager in a very precarious position.

Then I hit 29 (where I have remained) and I finally felt at peace with my age. When you have three children and you’re under thirty, you tend to get a look or two. It’s a look of pity and wonderment. Three kids already, huh? I got asked more than once. So 29 felt right…it felt good.

So I stopped there. Mentally, anyway. The truth is, I’m only in my early thirties. I’m two whole years away from my mid-thirties so there’s really no need to acknowledge the thirties at all, in my opinion.

And there sure as heck isn’t any reason to tell my kids my age. Because if I do, then whenever they’re asked how old mommy is, their reply will be, “Mommy if fowty-fwee.”

And h@#^ no I’m not. I’m nowhere near the 4-number. I can’t be because OMG forty is so old.

Stop laughing.

Obviously, age is just a number and it’s all relative. Forty really isn’t that old, but in my mind, it seems old. I remember my parents turning forty, for cryin’ out loud. But whatever. The older you get, the younger old looks…right, Dad?

But I’m a long way from the 4 number so there’s no need to worry about that anyway. Moving on…

So the number may not be my favorite thing but, I have to say, that in my 29-ish years of life the greatest accomplishment I’ve had by far are these three:

I still feel like that little 19 year old girl floating on the cloud of youth (just the fact that I am compelled to refer to anyone under the age of 25 as “little” or “kid” is evidence of my age…) but I will gladly grow older because each year brings new joys, new blessings and the chance to watch those sweet kids grow.

I’ll take that in exchange for a few new wrinkles. But just a few!

Just please, don’t ask them to say my real age until we’ve had a little time to work with a speech therapist. Deal?

Stop. Laughing!

Filed Under: Family, funny stuff that happens, Kids do the darndest things, Life, Motherhood, Random, things I don't need to hear Tagged With: birthdays, growing older, Motherhood

Happy Birthday, Mom

May 17, 2011 by Kelli

So this video isn’t nearly as cool as I wanted it to be. But as we all learned yesterday, I’m not really that cool anyway, so this actually fits quite well.

Today is my awesome Mom’s birthday and she’s half way across the world. I so wanted to fly to England and surprise her for her birthday, but alas, it wasn’t to be. Instead I had the kids write down 60 reasons why they love their Byshka (short for Babyshka – Grandmother in Russian). And here they are, all 60 reasons.

Unfortunately you can’t understand a word Landon says due to his lisp and inability to say several letters but he’s painfully cute so it doesn’t matter.

(A small disclaimer: I promise I bathe my kids, although in this video they are visibly dirty. The bruise on Tia’s chin is the result of an unfortunate run in with a parked car as she sped down the hill on her bike. We’re still working on riding without training wheels. The mark on Landon’s nose is the result of me not clipping his nails soon enough. I have no idea what’s on Sloan’s face. Carry on…)

Mom, I love you and I hope you’re having a grand time in London today. We’re sending kisses from across the pond. I think we’ll even pick up a little birthday cake and eat it in your honor today. So thanks for having a birthday – it gives us an excuse to splurge on a cake. And cake is good.

Love you and see you in a few weeks!!!

Filed Under: Family, Kids, Kids do the darndest things, Landon, Motherhood, Sloan, Tia Tagged With: Kids, Mom, video

The part where I really start to enjoy motherhood

May 16, 2011 by Kelli

I have a confession to make:

I haven’t always enjoyed motherhood.

The act of being a Mom came so naturally to me at first. When Sloan was born I was immediately comfortable with him. I wasn’t one of those neurotic moms who worried about every little cry. I didn’t care if people held him without washing their hands first and I didn’t freak out at every little cough or sneeze. I was laid back.

Except when it came to sleeping. I made that poor child take naps all the flipping time. Four naps a day for the first four months of his life, three naps a day for the next four and two naps a day until he was eighteen months old and he staged a morning nap coup resulting in me freaking out for a solid month before requiring he take a three hour nap every afternoon without possibility of negotiation until he turned four when he staged yet another coup and has refused to sleep since.

Okay I might have been a little neurotic.

I also required 12 hours of sleep per night and made sure bedtimes were rarely messed with. No wonder that child hates sleeping now.

Alright, alright – I was a lot neurotic.

But, neurosis aside, I was comfortable as a Mom. Babies are hard, but now that I’m on the other side of them I find myself snorting at how not hard babies really are. Am I confusing anyone yet?

The real work of motherhood starts when their reasoning ability kicks in. When you are no longer merely keeping them alive and sustaining them from day to day (or nap to nap in my case). Wait…you mean..I…have to…ya know…teach them? I have to raise them to be morally responsible, compassionate citizens of the world who contribute to society in a positive way?

*gulp*

I love being with my kids. I love doing the fun things with them. Going to the Zoo, playing at the park, going to the beach and the pool. I love to do the activity of life with my kids. But the day to day training that’s imperative to their development?

It hasn’t always been my favorite.

In fact, the day to day instruction has always been a bit daunting to me. The business of training them to be respectful and obedient. It’s hard! Give me a fussy newborn over an insolent toddler any day of the week. Can I get an Amen?

For those who know me well, you know I’m not what you might call a homebody. I don’t enjoy just being home. I like schedules and activity. I like to be on the go. I like to sprint through life. But guess what? It’s hard to sprint when there are three little ones whose legs aren’t as long as yours. My metaphor is getting a little rough, I know. Stay with me…

I’ve spent the better part of the last few months trying to slow down. I’ve cut out a few activities here and there and tried to pull back. I’ve tried to spend a little more time at home and when at home, I’ve tried to stop being so…busy all the time. I tend to equate down time with idleness. That’s not necessarily the case. Sometimes it’s good to sit and read a book to the kids in the middle of the day. It’s good for them and it’s good for me.

I’m finally beginning to enjoy the art of motherhood. The hard part. I’m even getting excited about it. I know, right? It’s about time. I’m looking forward to and excited about the process of training them. I look forward to praying for them and being with them. I’m so excited for this summer to just be.

I know it will be tiring and exhausting and hard. But I love the hard. I love the tiring. I’m learning to love the process. I’m learning to sit, to be still, to play Barbies, to have imaginary tea parties, to read books, to live every day life. I’m finally enjoying that part of motherhood a little more. Fewer schedules, more free time, more playtime. I’m slowing down my pace and finally giving my kids a chance to catch up.

This is a great place to be.

Filed Under: Life, Motherhood Tagged With: Kids, Life, Motherhood, slowing down

On the wings of love

May 9, 2011 by Kelli

Before we get started, I’d like to give you a moment to let the cheesy ’80’s ballad wash over you. Go on, sing it out. You know you want to…

…

Feel better?’

Great.

There is no great way to transition from obscure ’80’s music to prayer, but I’m gonna give it a try. Consider yourselves transitioned.

Once upon a time I was an early riser. While the rest of my generation slept until noon, I could often be found at sunrise jogging through the streets of my neighborhood. This was pre-baby when I still enjoyed jogging and my body moved in a more coordinated rhythm to make it possible, of course.

In college, I spent many an early morning watching the sunrise as I crammed knowledge into my over-functioning brain. In early motherhood, when it was me and one tiny baby, I watched the sunrise as I whispered prayers into his ear. I prayed he would grow into a man of character, a man of grace, a man of stature and wisdom and knowledge. I prayed that he would be strong and courageous, filled with love and a desire to help those in need.

But something happened to me in the seven years since I three times became mom. I lost my sense of wonder at the morning. My bed grew warmer and more comfortable. My children pitter pattered their way through the house at such an hour that in order to beat them up I really needed to rise while it was still night, just so I could welcome the morning.

With this unfortunate phenomena, I also lost my ability to passionately cry out on their behalf. My prayers for them became kernels of popcorn, popped up here and there throughout the day and rarely scratched the surface of my true desires for them.

“Help him understand love.” “Give her the courage to fail.” “Show him who You are.”

Generic.

A series of issues has brought me to a place of longing once again. Longing for the morning. The smell of life rising. The glint of dew on green grass and the painted reds, oranges and yellows stretched across the sky. Of darkness fading into morning light. Of fatigue mixed together with anticipation, staving off the sleep that still lingers. Longing stillness enough to hear.

To hear the wind blow. To hear the birds sing. To hear the Voice, still and small, waiting on the wings of love for my heart’s cry.

(How’s that for blending the ’80’s with prayer, eh?)

And my prayers are rising once again. A new song, a new desire, a new longing. I lay them down and wait. Sometimes I fall asleep in the pool of desire and heartache that I’ve only just surrendered. Sometimes I wait and listen.

For Sloan I pray Hebrews 10:19-24. May he be free from the guilt that so often weighs him down and pulls him back, his tender heart torn over sin, yet wrestling with the flesh. I pray Galations 5:22-23 and 1 Peter 1:5-6: self-control to make the right choices. I pray for wisdom in mothering such a strong willed, lion hearted child. I offer praise for being chosen for a clearly difficult task.

For Katya I pray 2 Timothy 2:10, that her heart would be turned toward the Savior and she would desire to know Him. I pray Colossians 3:12, that she would be free from the apathy that her spirit seems bent toward and would be filled with compassion. I pray 1 Thesselonians 5:15, that she would find more joy in kindness than she does in torturing her brothers.

I pray that I would have the belief that that last prayer could possibly someday be answered…

For Landon I also pray 2 Timothy 2:10. I pray that even at a young age, he will know and understand how high and deep and wide and vast is the Father’s Love for him. I pray Ephesians 6:1. I pray that he will delight in obedience and that the mischief that brings that twinkle to his eye would be harnessed, but not snuffed out completely. Because the mischief makes him oh so fun.

I pray verses over my husband that are sacred and are between me and God.

I don’t always give in to the call of the morning. Though I desperately love it, sometimes the call of my bed is more tempting, more comfortable, easier and warmer. But as spring is bringing change and decision, I find myself with a bit more urgency to reaquaint with the earliest hours of the day. And to pour over my children in the quiet that comes so rarely. I don’t whisper it in their ears anymore, as I am no longer cradling them in the rocking chair. But I pray that as I release my pleas, they take off on the wings of love and settle within the hearts and spirits of the little ones I love so dearly.

When and how do you pray for your children?

Filed Under: faith, Kids, Landon, Life, Motherhood, Sloan, Tia Tagged With: '80's ballads, faith, Motherhood, prayer, praying for young children

May Day

May 3, 2011 by Kelli

On Saturday, Lee and I took the kids to a 70th Anniversary Commemoration of the Nazi Invasion of the Soviet Union.

Try saying that five times fast.

For an hour and a half, we heard stories from local veterans about their experiences during World War II. Most of them were Jewish and experienced the effects of the Nazi hatred as well as the Soviet hatred. It was emotional and poignant and beautiful and sad.

The kids didn’t appreciate it at all.

“When can we go,” they whined over and over. And like any good Mom, I shushed them and shot them daggar eyes, melting them from the inside out.

At then end of each testimony, each speaker (most of whose stories were read by younger family members while they stood up front), made very similar statements. They lauded freedom. Freedom to practice religion, freedom from oppression, freedom to survive, freedom to love. Those men and women are deeply loyal to the lands of their birth. But they are also deeply loyal to their adopted land.

Attending this ceremony cemented my desire to bring the history of the former Soviet Union alive. It reignited my passion for the people of Ukraine, in particular, as several of the speakers were from Ukraine, from towns and cities I have visited.

We Americans have no idea the depth of suffering other parts of the world have experienced. That’s not to say we can’t sympathize, of course. I feel deep pain for the suffering around the world. But I don’t truly understand it because I haven’t lived it. My pain at the suffering we endured on 9/11 is even different from my fellow countrymen who were directly affected by the loss of loved ones. But think of this perspective:

It’s estimated that Ukraine lost up to 10 million people during World War II. That’s half of the population of the entire Soviet Union and twenty percent of the entire world’s death total.

I know my children are young and I don’t expect them to appreciate or even understand why I continue to expose them and push them toward the language and history of that part of the world, but I hope to the depth of my soul that someday, as they grow in maturity and understanding, they will develop not only a love for Ukraine and the russian language, but also for all the different cultures of this world.

I also hope that they will grow with the understanding that they have been privileged to be born in the most amazing country in the world. It is a flawed nation, to be sure. But America is a land to be loved, a loved to be applauded and a land that deserves our deepest appreciation.

That’s the lesson I’m hoping to teach my children as they grow. One of them, anyway.

Filed Under: Heritage, Kids, Motherhood, Russian Tagged With: America, Freedom, thoughts, Ukraine, World War II

Handstands in Heaven

April 26, 2011 by Kelli

Alternately titled: Car Ride of Random

We were heading home from Russian school, altogether as a family (in our smokin’ hot minivan that we now officially own, no less. HAWT!). It was raining. Again. We were tired and a little hungry since I failed in my mom duties and forgot to pack us dinners to go. But we were together as a family and that made everything a little bit better.

“Hey Mom,” Sloan piped up. “Why do girls always pick on me and bully me?”

“Probably because they like you,” I replied. I know the girls in question and I’m not entirely sure that’s why they’re picking on him. I think they’re just ornery, but I felt compelled to give the standard issue Mom answer as clearly directed in Article 16, Section C of the Mom’s Bylaws for Dealing with Difficult Questions.

Lee turned around and grinned at Sloan. “Told ya,” he said. It’s the standard issue answer for Dad’s as well, apparently.

“But why do they like me?” he asked.

“Because you’re cute and you’re smart and funny. Why wouldn’t they like you?” I answered.

“Hey Mom,” Tia yelled from the back seat. It was raining hard, we had to yell. “When I go to school and I wike some boys, I’m donna bully dem, okay?”

*This is the part where I desperately thumb through the Bylaws. There are no instructions. No INSTRUCTIONS!*

“No, you shouldn’t pick on boys,” Lee answered quickly.

“Why?” Tia asked. “You said dats what girls do when dey wike boys.”

DARN THOSE STANDARD ISSUE ANSWERS!

“Just don’t pick on boys. Treat others the way you want to be treated.”

WAM! The Golden Rule. Works every time…

“Hey Mom,” Tia yells again.

“Yes.”

“Can we do handstands in heaven?”

Laughter ensues, but then I look in the rearview mirror and see a very serious face. She wants an answer.

“Well, I don’t see why not,” I say.

“I think you’ll be able to do all the gymnastics you want in heaven,” Lee answered.

“Hey Mom, LOOK!” Landon screeches from his seat.

“What?!”

“I saw a kangaroo back dere by da road.”

“You saw a kangaroo?!”

“Yeah! Turn around. Mom, turn around,” he’s quite serious.

Lee looks back at him. “Did you see a kangaroo back there buddy?”

“Yeah!” He cries.

“Was it a real kangaroo?” Sloan asks craning his neck.

“No. It was pwetend. It was a pwetend one, Dad.”

And then we were home.

Who says riding in the car is boring?

Filed Under: Family, funny stuff that happens, Kids, Kids do the darndest things, Landon, Lee, Minivans, Motherhood, Russian, Sloan, Tia Tagged With: driving in the minivan, kids say the darndest things, Life

Olympic Gold 2024?

April 6, 2011 by Kelli

About a month ago, we received an email from Tia’s gymnastics facility inviting her to be a part of an advanced developmental team. The idea is that for the next year and a half, she and several other advnaced 5-7 year olds will learn bigger and harder skills with the goal of entering into competitive gymnastics.

The decision for whether or not to do this turned into quite a big deal for Lee and I. We stressed and prayed and talked to a lot of people about whether or not we should allow her to participate in this class.

The training schedule for this program is not overly strenuous. It’s only 3.5 hours a week of gym time. But Tia is also only 5 and we didn’t want to push her into something too early. For over a year, Tia has been in a preschool aged class and she has been far too advanced for the group. While most of the girls in that class were still trying to figure out what foot to put in front to successfully turn a cartwheel, Tia was performing running round off’s with almost perfect precision.

She’s kind of a natural.

Try not to be jealous of the art that is this photo. It's like you're there watching, isn't it? Ah, who're we kidding - I stink at indoor photography.

On the other hand, Lee and I are fairly certain that gymnastics is not a long term sport for Tia, mainly because she’s going to be too tall. As a former competitive gymnast and gymnastics coach myself, I have a bit of experience with this sport. I thought an opportunity like this for my daughter would thrill me, and it did. But it also terrified me! One of the questions Lee and I wrestled through was this: Tia will likely outgrow this sport by the time she is a preteen, so do we need to waste the time and money on training for something that she won’t be able to do long term?

"Take my picture wike I won da gold medal, Mom!"

Ultimately we decided to give her the chance to try it out. We’re trying it for two months. The practices are twice weekly and yes, it means our schedule just got a little crazier given that baseball season has also recently begun. Even if she doesn’t do gymnastics past the fifth grade, the skills she is learning will serve her in any sport she chooses. She’s learning strength, coordination, flexibility and discipline.

Plus, she’s pretty excited that within a few months she’ll be doing back flips on the trampoline.

So we’ll see what happens. At the end of May we’ll decide if we’re going to continue with this program or just put her in an advanced class without the goal of competition. This may disappoint the boys who spent the evening last night doing what boys to best.

Watching girls.