I've Still Got It

“Look at me, Granma,” Adella jubilantly shouts.

I look. Adella is poised mid-somersault, her head, slightly tucked pressing against the family room rug, her toes flexing, her legs stretching long, and her bottom pointing high in the air.

“Are you doing a somersault?” I ask.

“Yes,” she replies. “See!”

“Yes, I see,” I say.  Then I wait, expectantly.  But her toes never push that little bit to propel her legs over her head to complete her somersault. It seems she does not know what a somersault is after all. If I had asked if she were doing the  “Biles,” a double layout with a half-twist and a blind landing, she undoubtedly would have answered affirmatively.

It is her vantage point, looking at the world upside down as the blood rushes to her head, that is her trick. She remains delightedly poised, mid-somersault. She has no inkling that she is on the very cusp of completing a somersault. Adella is a girl who thrives on dizzy thrills—she loves to twirl and twirl and twirl in my family room until she falls and then gets up to do it all over again. If she only knew, I think.

“Let me help you,” I say. I put one hand on her head, another on her bottom, and gently push her over. And she experiences that glorious topsy-turvy moment for the first time.

She looks up at me, surprised, ecstatic. “Let’s do it again, Granma.”

We do it again. And again and again. Because Adella is only three and a half, she has an endless capacity for repetition. She does not quite master the somersault on her own, but she is on her way.

Jim has observed us from the other side of the family room. Soon he too wants to do a somersault. From his two-year-old perspective, there is nothing that Adella does that he cannot do. I have my doubts. Adella has the lithe body of a gymnast; Jim is a thirty-five pound linebacker, unwieldy and unmovable. But he is determined. He stands next to me and bows his head.

“You need to get on the floor, honey,” I say.

He then lies flat on the floor. I am not sure if he believes he is imitating Adella’s pre-somersault position. But he most definitely is not.

“You’ve got to bend your knees up, “ I say as I put one arm under his trunk and attempt to tuck in his resistant knees under his bottom.

“Look at me, Jim,” Adella shouts. “Like me.”

The position of his body looks nothing like her. “Bring your arms in next to your body,” I urge and try to curl them next to his sides. As he focuses on his arms, his legs shoot out of its tucked position.

“Let’s tuck your head,” I say and as I gently press his forehead against the rug, his arms pop out of position. I feel like I am playing Whack-a-mole. Each time I position one body part another body part pops out of position. He has no conception of the how to position himself for a somersault, much less execute it. He only knows that he wants to do what Adella is doing.

I just decide to flip him over, which is no simple task. It is like flipping over a thirty-five pound walrus. Pure nonmalleable dead weight, waiting to be acted upon. It takes a few tries, but finally, I awkwardly flip him over.

He looks up, ebullient. “Again,” he says.

So I spend the next several minutes, helping Jim and Adella do somersaults. Thankfully Marshall does not join us. If truth be told, one-year-old Marshall is a wisp. I could easily flip him over and over again without much effort. But he is preoccupied—delighted to be lord over all the toys in the toy corner—oblivious to his cousins’ Olympic gymnastic feats.

Finally I tire. I redirect Adella and Jim toward the bouncy balls after refereeing a dispute between the blue and the highly desired cloudy ball. As they play, I sit back self-satisfied. I might be a grandmother, I think, but I’ve still got it. I feel like that mom wearing torn pajama pants and a t-shirt with three spit up stains, returning from a school drop-off with an infant and a toddler in the car seats in the back of her mom van, who, after rolling down her car window while stopped at a stoplight to clear the air of diaper stink, unconsciously runs her fingers through the clumped oatmeal in her unruly mane, eliciting a glorious, flirtatious smile from the attractive young male in a sports car in the lane next to her.

Yes, I’ve still got it. I may be a grandmother. I may not attract flirtatious glances. But I’ve still got the mom gene. I can recognize a child poised on the precipice of discovery and gently nudge her over. And in my triumphant moment, I revel in a montage of moments long past, first steps and first dates, phonics and sonnets, training wheels and first drives, all moments with my children on the brink of discovery.

And then my self-satisfaction begins to wane, and I begin to wonder: If I’ve still got it, how much do I got it? Do I got it enough to continue recognizing these brief snatches of opportunity? Or will I be so inured by the commonness of daily living—so caught up in my grandma stuff—that I will miss the tiny, quiet, teachable moments? 

I am not sure. But at least for today, I've still got it. My mom gene might be a bit rusty and out of practice, but its got a lifetime worth of nurturing to rely on.