I fail at crawling.
I fall headfirst down a flight of concrete steps. (That’s got to explain my lack of motor skills, not to mention my love of Bethenny Ever After, right?)
One day in first grade, upon learning I have gym class, I begin to weep.Apart from totally dominating at scooter soccer (probably because the handicap was already built in), I was not good at any physical activity that required hand-eye coordination or strength in any part of my body. Even Red Rover terrified me—what if I couldn’t hold on tight enough? What if my tiny 40-lb. body couldn’t break through the chain of fists? WHAT IF I GOT CALLED OVER??????? I had some anxiety problems.
At the Quaker camp I went to, even though they were supposed to be peaceful, they would occasionally force me to stop making God’s Eyes and participate in a Lord of the Flies-style game of Capture the Flag, in which counselors would smear our faces with Ponds cold cream tinted with food coloring, stick a bandana in the back pocket of our shorts, and make us run around trying to “tag” someone out by grabbing their bandana. Needless to say, I surreptitiously removed my own bandana, used it to wipe the cold cream off my cheeks, and sat on the sidelines pretending I was going to vomit (I used the same general tactic for dodgeball, except in order to sit out I first had to get whacked really hard with a partially deflated orb, which made the same sound as a belly flop and hurt just as much.)
So imagine my inner child’s delight upon reading yesterday that the Department of Health has deemed Capture the Flag, Red Rover, kickball, dodgeball, and wiffleball unsafe for children! Oh, happy day!
Actually, I don’t agree with this decision at all—kids get hit with balls sometimes, and as long as they’re not attached to a human man it’s totally OK, even character-building!—but man, I would have been thrilled to get out of those activities with a legitimate, government-endorsed excuse back in the day. How much grief and humiliation would have been spared! How many more God’s Eyes I could have made! Red rover, red rover, let... me sit on my ass watching Saved By the Bell re-runs. Yes!
The more pressing question is, of course, how can I avoid passing on my wimp gene? Unless I man up, my kid may not have the muscle tone necessary to control its own bowels.