Keeping it cool

Too cool?

Yesterday, the kids had their first meet of the season. It was surprisingly disaster-free (everyone made it over the table, nobody melted down on beam) until bars, when young Larissa jumped to the high bar, peeled off, and landed on her neck.

Coach P., who had been standing next to the high bar, immediately dropped to the mat to assist her. There was the tense moment when we all watched: Is she okay? Will she get up?

She did get up, but she was in tears. Coach P. had her salute to the judges and then brought her to the side, where folks from the host gym arrived with ice.

What did I do? I set the board for Colleen. She stepped onto it, looking at Larissa with concern.

"Let's go, Colleen," I said.

Now I'm wondering if Larissa's mom thinks I was insensitive, or negligent, or something of the sort. But as soon as Coach P. went over to her, I knew that my role was to keep the kids calm and keep them moving.

When a kid goes down at the gym, I do the same thing. Keep the world turning. Do not yell, do not go running. I am not the one to play the first responder, although it has happened at times. But then, too, I maintain the same demeanor. Send a kid for an ice pack, sit with the injured girl while making sure the others are occupied, start telling jokes when it appears that she's okay, just scared.

But maybe too detached? Today makes me wonder.

That awkward moment

when a kid's parent friends you on Facebook.

What do you do?

So far, I've left the request hanging in the "yet-to-respond" pile. But another one hath arrived.

I don't want to reject. I know I can set it so that if I accept, they can't seem much of my wild and crazy (yep, so wild and crazy) life.

But then they can message me. And poke me. And send me requests for Farmville or whatever game's all the rage these days.

Once again: what's a sister to do?

Eureka!

I love that moment where you find a way to reach the unreachables.

Young Mariah embodies the phrase, "She wouldn't hurt a fly." Instead, she'd probably gaze at it and blink in wonder as it tried to suck her blood.

When you work with Mariah one-on-one, she's with you. She focuses as best she can. But when she's just one of the group, as everyone must inevitably be during practice, she moves about in a rather lost manner. The basic things you emphasized in one-on-one time -- pointed toes, straight legs, the finer stuff -- disappears entirely. You repeat yourself. She nods, then continues to bend her legs and drift along through her routines.

What was it that worked so well during the private lessons that was lost on her now, besides the extra attention?

Then I remembered.

"Mariah, I'm going to judge your routine," I said when she came over to the beam closest to me. "You have to get a 9.0."

Her eyes widened. "Oh, no!"

But what happened? Toes pointed. Legs straightened. Turns completed and cartwheels stayed on the beam.

In a word: magic.