YO MAMA: The gymnastics of parenthood
OPINION
All of a sudden, my son accidentally did his first somersault, right there on the living room carpet. At 19-months-old, he was obsessed with moving his body in new, exciting and ridiculously flexible ways. If I were to name this phase, I would call it ‘Experiments in Motion’. He never stopped moving, even in his sleep.
After the accidental somersault — which he finished by toppling over sideways — he lay completely still for a few moments. I couldn’t tell if he was dizzy or paralyzed (my first thought, right before overwhelming pride, was ‘oh-my-god-his-neck’.) Then, joyously, he broke the silence.
“Heh heh heh,” he giggled.
He tried to do a few more somersaults, failed, tried a few more times and landed another one.
“Heh heh heh.”
Somersaults were hilarious.
Then he pointed from me, to the floor, and back to me.
“Mama!” he said. It was an order, and I knew what it meant: my turn.
I got into position, rocked back and forth a few times for momentum and — nope. I froze. It was like I’d come up against a concrete highway barrier.
What had happened to me? As a kid, I loved somersaulting. The very word is fun to say, rolling around in your mouth the way it does. I felt a wave of nostalgia recalling friendly competitions with childhood friends to see who could do the most somersaults in a row across the lawn, all of us falling over in fits of laughter, our heads spinning.
I guess I grew up, and I stopped somersaulting as much. The last time I somersaulted was probably Grade 10 gym class.
But I wasn’t going to give up, not just yet. Instead, I did what all middle-aged people do when they are attempting a semi-dangerous stunt: I made a giant pile of pillows and blankets.
Round two. I gave myself a little pep talk, told the kid to stand back (I had no idea where my arms and legs might end up) and rocked back and forth again, determined to commit this time.
“One… two.. three — DAMMIT!”
I hit that invisible, impenetrable wall of fear again. When had I become so old and pathetic?
I longed for my son’s reckless abandon. He wasn’t afraid of anything. He just lived, fully in the moment, every waking hour. He scaled furniture five times his size. That would be like me trying to climb up the side of my house.
I kept practicing, a little bit every night. While Googling proper somersaulting technique, I learned the root word of the term comes from the French sault ‘to leap.'
A few nights later, I forgot to be scared for long enough to let my feet pass over my head. I did a somersault, and it felt amazing. My head spun and my heart thumped and I had that jittery feeling you get from doing something silly.
“Heh heh heh!” my son pointed and laughed.
Somersaults are pretty funny after all.
— Charlotte Helston gave birth to her first child, a rambunctious little boy, in the spring of 2021. Yo Mama is her weekly reflection on the wild, exhilarating, beautiful, messy, awe-inspiring journey of parenthood.
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