Gymnastic Dreams

Raise your hand if you have been staying up too late watching Olympians win gold this last week. Michael Phelps has rocked Beijing, but my favorite is the women's gymnastics.

Nastia Liukin is a picture of beauty and grace. Shawn Johnson is a powerhouse of perfection. And I am not a little impressed with their cool under pressure. Watching them go one, two in the individual all-around competition was fantastic, though my husband and I almost developed stomach ulcers as we literally held our breath through every routine.

You probably don't know this about me, but I once had dreams of Olympic gymnastics myself. When I was a little girl I begged my mom to wait in the hours-long line to sign me up for gymnastics at the park district. Thankfully, she gave in. This is significant because my mom is not a patient person. She made me wait with her, but I didn't mind. The line wound around the gymnasium, past the vault and near my favorite uneven bars. I was pursuing my Olympic dreams.

My body has a decently athletic build and ability, the only problem is my mind. It is filled with a lot of imagination, but not much mental toughness or tenacity. I once almost got a black eye when attempting a back-walk-over. My leg knew it was supposed to go over, but my brain had second thoughts and hesitated. My knee crashed into my eye socket and I went down. Thankfully no major bruise ever formed.

In second grade there was a girl in my class, Chris Adams, that could do flip flops all across the playground. I would ask her to do them again and again. I loved Chris Adams. I, on the other hand, could only do one flip flop when spotted really well. But I could run and jump over that vault, swing around the uneven bars and point my toes like no other.

One of my favorite, and most humorous, memories of my dad is when he pulled me aside one day and told me that if I wanted to he would support my desire to go all the way with gymnastics. He would support my Olympic dreams. I love him to death for the memory, but even at the time I think I knew it was a little unrealistic. You see, I never was able to progress past "advanced beginners."

I watched anything I could about Nadia Comaneci. I saw how in her native Romania they came into her school and picked her out to begin training at a young age. I waited, but no one came for me. Then she went into a gym with her own personal coaches and they formed her, not only into an Olympic gymnast, but into the greatest gymnast who had ever lived. She was the first to receive a perfect "10." I, on the other hand, watched as a select few walked into our room for "intermediates." These were the girls with potential. I was not one of them.

After filling my mind with all of these dreams, I had one of my own, while I slept. I can still picture it in my mind - leaping and flipping on the balance beam (the apparatus I feared most) and sticking every landing. I was sleeping over at a friend's house when I had the dream. I won gold. I was the best. And then I woke up. It had seemed so real that I cried when I realized it was just a dream. My Olympic hopes would never become a reality. I was 10 years old, already too old to hope.

Now I watch these girls twist and turn in seemingly impossible feats of strength and athleticism with my three-year-old daughter. She gets up and spins and says she wants to do "ballet" like them. And in the pit of my stomach I feel the hopes of a dream rekindle. Maybe I should sign her up for tumbling. She may have gotten her pole vaulter father's mental focus and ability to stay airborne.

But no, I don't want to be one of those parents putting my dreams onto my children. But I have to say, Olympic dreams die hard, even when you never get past advanced beginners.