Circus Week

I can't let the Olympics go by without saying something, and these Olympics are special because they're held in my daughter's country of origin. This isn't the China post, though--I'm going to write that one next. But then there's my childlike enthusiasm for all things gymnastics, as well as the alarmingly patriotic feeling that swells in my chest whenever I see a medal ceremony or watch Michel Phelps win, even though I sort of resent my own knee-jerk response. (Heart-jerk response?)

In a fun coincidence, Jarrah attended a week of gymnastics camp during the first week of the Games, her first experience with the sport. I thought she might enjoy a completely new experience, and of course she did. That child is enthusiastic about everything. She attended a local gymnastics "academy" with her friend Amelia, and the two of them were clearly the youngest and smallest in their group--some of those girls were easily 8 or 10. That didn't faze them--neither of them are shy. The camp runs in weekly themes, with this particular week being "Circus Week," though I never really figured out what made it so. The place is a huge two-story warehouse on a street of other warehouses, which sounds kind of grim except that it was also filled with state-of-the-art equipment, and bathed in natural light from the many windows and doors. The teachers, Corey and Britney (you can tell when they were born) seemed very sweet, and Jarrah was sweaty and full of stories each day when I picked her up.

A few times, I arrived early or stayed late on the observation deck upstairs, with a big window overlooking the studio from whence one can spy on the action below. I can't say that I saw much that resembled gymnastics, but I saw them stretching (Jarrah is very flexible) and doing somersaults, playing what looked like "duck-duck goose" and knocking down a "house" built of marshmallow bricks from the foam pit. One day, I saw Jarrah climb up on the regulation vault and leap into the pit below, seemingly without hesitation. It was a long way down, though of course the pit is extremely soft. It did make me wonder if she got her confidence from the hours of diving she and I had watched the day before, girl after girl spinning and tumbling from great heights into the pool below, then showering nonchalantly mere seconds later. Perhaps she's taken a cue about heights from them. Hard to say.

It's hard to say anything, really. I expect some parents wait for signs that their progeny have inherited their belt voice, their handiness with a racket, their fleetness of foot. They might watch to see if their baby is graceful like Grandma or forever knocking things over like Daddy. Perhaps they are smug, or simply satisfied, when their expectations are realized. Perhaps they are secretly disappointed when they're not.

But I don't have expectations about any kind of prowess that might be described as genetic. I can't. And while this makes Jarrah a clean slate where accomplishments are concerned, it makes me the same. She might do anything, or nothing at all. She might do a hundred things with great enthusiasm, or she might be passionate about one thing she's really, really great at. I just don't know.

I've asked other moms, how do you know what to offer your child, what activities to encourage, how to shape nascent talents? They look at me quizzically, with something resembling a gentle tolerance for my ignorance, and they don't say much. I press: did you watch them clinically for signs of genius, musical promise, an amazing throwing arm? They don't answer. The most I've ever gotten is: they tell you. You don't have to convince them; they'll let you know what they like, what they care about, and that is where they will excel.

Really? I think of my own childhood, the years at the piano, that hulking piece of furniture behind which I hid, tonelessly plunking out my required 30 minutes a day. The daily hours in the pool, gasping through workouts, cringing through meets, never finding "my" stroke. I think of how I longed to tap dance, to draw, to learn guitar--stuff that never happened. I really have no idea why I didn't do what I like. I'd have to go back and ask my 10-year-old self what the hell I thought I was doing--or not doing.

I watch Nastia Liukin delicately flinging her weight around the high bar, and wonder if she inherited her father's talent, or just his interest. I watch Michael Phelps's mother, on the edge of her seat, wringing her hands as her boy swims into history, and I wonder if she always sensed he had it in him (and I don't mean swimming ability--I think the mental and emotional strength has to be just as great or greater.) I well up when I see Shawn Johnson's exultant grin as she realizes she is nailing her floor exercise when it counts the most, and it reminds me of Jarrah's beautiful, wide smile as she leaps across the gym mats, when she has no idea that I'm watching.

Will she continue in gymnastics? Or will it be karate? Cello? Watercolors? Soccer? Something I haven't even thought of...beach volleyball? (Why are they in bathing suits?) Will she tell me what she cares about, or will I have to figure it out?

And the dirty little thoughts at the back of my mind...will she simply enjoy gymnastics, or will the world (or some portion of it) enjoy watching her enjoy it? You see what I mean. Is it my job to find her talents and nurture them, or just to stand back and let her figure it out?

This is hard for me to talk about. I'm trying to be honest here.