Once a week, I take our little guy to a gymnastics class for toddlers. It’s 30 minutes. It’s fun, even though he’s on the younger side in the group. He seems to like all the tumbling and jumping on trampolines and climbing to heights i don’t let him reach at home. He really loves the slide… He’s not really into the rings.
But this post isn’t about him. or about gymnastics.
It’s about his big sister. Who, for the first time in her life, has to sit patiently on the sidelines for 30 minutes while her brother gets full mama-attention. We bring books, coloring books, dolls. And she has a slew of imaginary friends (including a dragon and a fox and a mouse) who come with us most places. So we’ve been lucky and it’s been pretty uneventful.
Or so I thought.
Until last night, when I went back into my phone to look for a pic I took for a blog post I wanted to write about planning the garden:
I have no idea who the kid is (he has a sibling in our class, maybe?) …… and the mom in the pics? No. That’s not me.
The feet are hers.
Maybe I should leave the phone in the car next time?