golden child goes bad

I enrolled Young One in a couple of after-school activities, which is probably the reason for the back-to-school groove suffering.  We were in full-on summer relax mode, and BAM. . . alarm clocks and scheduled activities took us out.  She continues once a week with a lesson at the pool she visited with the asilo for three years.  She's in a small group with a few of the kids from the asilo that she would likely rarely see otherwise.  She likes that.  We all like it.  I chat with the other moms from the comfort of a bar with a wall of windows up above as we observe our little fish below.  I don't care for the scramble for showers or the wait that results when I don't scramble or the steam bath I receive as I supervise my little naked fish in the locker room after the lesson, but there's not much to do about that. I would not dare simply allow her to change and head for home sans shower.  And then there is the drying of the hair . . . a must.  I try to blend in and "do as the Vicentini" as much as I can -- no way would it ever be okay to exit with a damp head.

The lessons are going well.  It's all just for fun, really.  I'm not in the business of training an athlete.

Just because I like to torture myself, I also enrolled her in a gymnastics class near our house that takes place twice a week.  I invited myself into the gym during the first week to watch a lesson:  it's part yoga, part agility drills, part gross motor skills, part obstacle course, part breathing exercise, part aerobic activity.  I like it a lot, too.

Unlike the grand view that we are offered at the pool, the gymnastics lessons take place in a middle school gym behind a closed door.  The only access that we have to the action is from the windows above. I feel much like a regular Peeping Tom up there.  We both noticed that after a few weeks into the lessons that our golden child was behaving like the problem child.  (Gasp! I know, I know.  Little Miss Sunshine does have a not-so-pretty side to her at times.)  While the other kids were listening patiently to the instructor, she was doing cart wheels or skipping or climbing the wall or otherwise being off task and obnoxious on the other side of the gym -- not once, not twice. . . Every. Single. Time. Twice Richard arrived to find her getting special first aid attention.  She's needy like that.

Enough was enough and finally we stuck it to her: "Clean up your act, Sister, or no more ginnastica for you."  She sheepishly told us that she "forgets" to be a good girl because "it's so hard."  (Huh?  There are children starving in Africa.  Let me tell you about "hard" Little Miss Silver Spoon. Gymnastics is a privilege, not a right. And I'm taking away your dolls and your scooter AND Dorina is not cleaning your room. You'll be lucky if you ever play outside again. I brought you into this world, I can take you out.  I'll show you hard, Lil' Missy.)  She swears she loves the classes.

Richard even enlisted the help of Silvia, the coach, who intially played it off as Young One being one of those kinds of kids who needs to be moving at all times. I see it as she's one of those kinds of kids who doesn't respect others. Breathe deeply. Neither Richard nor I has a whole lot of tolerance for that. I know she can sit still. I know she can actively listen.  She's just being an impossible turd. After a talk with the instructor and mutiple threats talks at the dinner table or in the car or in the bed or in the tub, her day of reckoning arrived. 

She redeemed herself.

Not much more to say about it execept that . . .

the kid was quite proud of her moment of redemption.

And that's a good thing.

 

Ginnastica continues.

(For the time being.)

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