Gymnastics and Underwear

My kids are the loudest quiet kids you have met.  Actually, if you met them, you’d probably think they were the quietest quiet kids you’d ever met, but if you hung out with them for any length of time, you’d quickly realize that they are capable of extraordinary volumes.

But in public settings, they usually exert themselves to exhibit quiet, straight-laced demeanors.  All but my youngest.  Or maybe he just exhibits it for the least amount of time.  They’ve all taken this fantastic pre-school gymnastics class at our Y, and my three oldest were quiet and virtuously obedient, studiously endeavoring to perfectly mimic the teacher.  Andy is just as difficult to peel off my leg to start, but once he’s been there for a few minutes, he is jumping excitedly as he waits in lines and giggling and making faces with whoever is standing next to him.

The teacher is phenomenal.  I just discovered that she is one of eight kids herself, so maybe that explains it.  She is fun but firm (both qualities which I feel are being consistently scrubbed out of me the longer I parent).

So, last time, as Andy was walking the balance beam, he yelled out, “Teacher, teacher!”  “What, Andy?”  “I listened to Jesus Freak on radio on the way here.”  “Um, okay.”

None of the other kids in the class try to talk with the teacher at all—they’re all three and four, so that’s pretty normal, but not for Andy.  Later on, as he’s doing some other stunt, “Teacher, teacher?”  “What, Andy?”  “Jack has an undershirt!!!!!”  All those !!!!s mean he is conveying top-quality, stunning information with the bugging eyes and an intense “Can you believe it?” look to go with it.  “An undershirt?”  “Yes!!” with vigorous head nods.  She walks back to her post of assisting other kids in a back roll, and looks at me and says, “Did he say Jack has an undershirt?”  I nod and chuckle.

But the truth is that this ground-breaking information!  Because my children don’t usually wear underwear.  Okay, well underpants, yes.  But no undershirts.  I know, it’s terrible.  How did I ever get a license to be a mom?  I obviously flunked Onesies 101--they were just too much trouble to find and put on and peel off when everything was soaked and wash and find another one.  I quickly decided just a diaper and clothes worked totally fine.  And so, I never graduated up to Undershirts 201.

But then, my boys have been into dressing up for church lately, so I bought a pack of undershirts to go beneath their button-up shirts.  And this has brought Jack eternal bliss.  Because he can be “just like Daddy.”  So, he strips now almost immediately upon disembarking from the school bus and wears his undershirt for the remainder of the day, if possible, and to bed.

Yesterday, while at Wal-Mart, I remembered (even without a list) to pick up some new underpants for my oldest son, and Jack immediately begged, “Please get me some white ones, too, so I can be just like Daddy, too.”  How can a mother resist that request?  (And Dave wants you to know that he does NOT wear tighty-whiteys, but I refuse to relinquish any more information on that subject.)  So, he immediately changed into his newly acquired glory once home, and we set the timer so he could track when exactly Dave would be home.  He raced down to greet Dave’s arrival with the thrilled statement, “I want to come change with you, so I can show you my new underwear!!!”

As I was making dinner, Jack came back and said, “I know what I want for my birthday.”  “What, sweetie?”  “Pajama bottoms like Daddy!  Then, with my undershirt and underpants, I’ll be just like him.”  “Yeah, we won’t be able to tell you apart,” and he giggled.

Isn't it sweet how boys want to be just like their dad (and what a great dad they have--even though he obviously spends all his time at home strolling around in either underwear or pajama bottoms).

Now I just have to remember to add pajama bottoms to the other items he’s mentioned he wants for his sixth birthday:  chapstick and a rubber duck.  Doesn’t this sound like a birthday to die for?