When I was growing up, you really didn’t specialize in anything or enroll in activities considered “advanced” until high school.
We are now living in a world where “advanced” is a term associated even with newborn babies.
If white babies are born with blue eyes, they’re considered advanced.
If they “smile” when they pass gas, they’re advanced.
If they can pinch their fingers together it means they are advanced sign language experts.
Today, I was attempting to sign up my three year old for gymnastics in the fall. Regular, general, kids, fun, non-competitive gymnastics, but the program was full.
It’s full because I left it too late because we all have an incessant need to sign our kids up for things so they don’t get left behind and because I didn’t set up a tent at midnight the first day in March, Chloe’s group is full.
There is a waiting list that I happily put our name on but before we left the gym, an assessment lady asked if she could take Chloe into the gym to see if she might qualify for the “advanced” kindergym program.
I find it almost comical that we can put the word advanced in front of the prefix kinder but there we were, having our three year old assessed to see if she might be a real wizard.
I wasn’t sure how I felt about all of this.
On one hand, I liked the idea of just getting her into the program doing something. It didn’t really matter to me if she was in the advanced program but I didn’t like that it might be too physically challenging and not nearly as much fun as the “Kindergym for slobberers” I was quite happy to sign her up for.
I didn’t like that it would likely cost triple the money required to hire advanced coaches, with their fancy cars and handlers, nor did I like the additional time it might take out of our fall tv line-up if we were at the gym for an additional 30 minutes every week.
The assessment was grueling. Hanna, Ellie and I watched from behind the glass while Chloe nailed a few dismounts from the advanced equipment. She didn’t even look at the pool noodles the general students were trying to hit the light-bulbs with.
Then I saw Chloe point to me and I smiled and waved like a Mother crazed. Never mind the waiting list. Waiting lists are for suckers. My kid must be good enough for advanced kindergrym.
It turns out, she’s not advanced.
Apparently when Chloe pointed at me the conversation I didn’t hear went something like this.
Assessment Lady to Chloe: Could you jump off the bar and do a motorcycle landing?
Chloe to AL: Well, some people, like my Mom (pointing to perma-grin advanced Kindergrym enthusiast from behind the glass) don’t like motorcycles because they’re dangerous.
I’ll land like I’m riding a Princess pony.
Waiting list it is.
