This morning, I thought it would be fun to take Bjorn to a Parent-Tot demo class at the local gymnastics center. My kid is an active kid, I thought. This class will be perfect for him!
And then my kid became that kid. And I became that mom.
That kid who can't sit down, but zooms around the room, while the rest of the kids are sitting patiently, waiting for their turn on the bars.
That kid who throws a limp spaghetti fit, with full on screaming and crocodile tears. Flailing of the arms. Kicking of the feet. Snot flying everywhere. All while the instructor is trying to explain walking on a balance beam.
That kid who is not scared of anything. Including balance beams. Vaults. And trampoline. Little daredevil.
That kid who collides with a little girl during run time (which completely ruins her day) and continues to play and run and jump. (Oh wait, that's not his fault. That's the fault of the Dad who said to my explanatory "They ran into each other." with "Oh, hmpfh. Hpmhmf." with a dirty look to me and soothingly "Do you need to go home now? Are you gonna be able to play again?" to his little girl who ran right into my kid. Notice he's not crying. Wimp.) I'm a little bitter about this one.
And I was that Mom who tried to contain her rambunctious (and sometimes, let's just face it, Terror) child but only got kicked, snotted on and embarrassed looks from the other parents.
That Mom who was out of breath and sweaty from trying to corral him and hold him while he threw his outrageous tantrum.
That Mom who pretty much threw up her arms in resignation and decided then and there that I didn't care how badly he behaved because there was pretty much no way I was coming back. Until it had at least been long enough that I had recovered, and everyone else had forgotten him. Ten years long enough?
Yeah, I was a bad Mom. Whatever. We are all totally that Mom sometimes. Usually when we have that kid.