Head Over Heels

This has little to do with the post but isn't he cute when he's focused on grammar?

My kids inherited some tall genes from their mother.  Before any of my siblings leave cruel and unsupportive comments about me not being tall, my kids are tallish so I must be a carrier of some height.  Right?

Height sometimes equates with athleticism but unfortunately, they inherited my athleticism as well.  (My lack of athleticism.)

Yesterday Mark and I practiced somersaults.  Somersaults are one of the requirements for Cub Scouts.  Mark can do backward somersaults quite easily but when he tried to go forward, he'd stand on his head.  Then he'd make me laugh.  Then we'd try some more.  Finally I knelt next to him and flipped him along.    Soon enough, he was a proficient little somersaulter.  (I don't consider it a successful blog post unless I make up a word and by the way, Marianne a.k.a. Anonymous, you suggested I get a hobby and I think that will be it...I'll make up words.)  Back to somersaults though, good thing I was never a Cub Scout.   

When I was in first grade, I had to do somersaults.  Mrs. Kessler was our P.E. teacher.  She encouraged us to tuck in our chins when we did somersaults so we wouldn't break our necks.  My number one goal in life is to not hurt myself and that horrified me.  I was doing something where I had to take precautions so I wouldn't break my neck?!?

I couldn't do it.

No somersaults for me.

My dad decided I would do a somersault.  (Now that I think about it, it was a little contrary to the rest of his attitude about my education because when I wanted to miss school, he'd tell me I should stay home and let the other kids catch up.)  For some reason though, somersaults mattered.

My dad had me crouch on the arm of the couch (which is delightfully rhyming).  Then he'd have me attempt to somersault across the couch (he understood that my number one goal in life is to not hurt myself so the couch was a nice soft choice).

I couldn't do it though.  It scared me.

I think my dad started to take it personally.

But it didn't help.  My poor dad.  He finally gave up and hoped for better things from his other children.

Speaking of my dad, occasionally, he calls me and tells me to give Mark a recess.  Sometimes he wants to talk to me about one of my blog posts.

Yesterday he told me I need to write more or I'll never finish my "novel".  (It makes me feel better to put it in quotes like that.)

I said, "Are you afraid I'll die before I finish?"

He said, "I think I will at the rate you're going and I want to read it."

So I've resolved to try to write more. I'll try.

After the somersault disappointment, I think I owe it to my dad.