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“I’ve enrolled Jernae in gymnastic class,” I said to my friend David. “I think she has potential.” 

“Are you kidding?” he scolded. “How old is she?” 

“Thirteen.”  

“Thirteen? She’s over the hill. You’ve got to start children in gymnastic lessons when they’re babies. Haven’t you ever watched the Olympics? Those kids are barely out of diapers.” 

“I’m not trying to make her into a champion,” I said. “I just want her to be able to do a few cartwheels and somersaults. You know, build up her self-confidence.” 

“It’s too late,” answered David with conviction. “You’ve missed the boat. I’m not sure you can teach her anything now. Get ready for juvenile delinquency, AA meetings and teenage pregnancy.  

I ignored David. I come from a family that believes in enrolling children in every lesson imaginable. By the time I was 10 years old I’d taken classes in swimming, piano, dance (tap and ballet), ice skating, horseback riding, tennis and golf. I hadn’t excelled at anything, but I had a very good time. 

I met Jernae when she was 8 years old. She did not know how to ride a bicycle or swim. Now, after a few sessions on the sidewalk in front of my house, she can pedal anywhere. She can swim across the short width of the public pool. I was sure she would do well in gymnastics if given the chance. 

But when we arrived at Head Over Heels in Emeryville I could see that she was the oldest child in the beginners class, and the only one wearing a bathing suit. Little girls were doing flips on trampolines and headstands on the balance beam. They were dressed in colorful leotards and they wore serious ace bandages on their tiny wrists.  

I held my breath and hoped that Jernae would stick with the lessons even though she was a foot taller than most of the kids in her class. After the first day she announced that she needed a leotard and bandages.  

I explained to her that the lessons were stretching my budget and that she’d have to continue in her bathing suit, minus the wristbands. She looked at me in disgust, but she went back the next day and the next. By the third week she could do one-handed cartwheels, a front flip on the trampoline and a back flip over the uneven bars. As we walked out of the studio, she did three cartwheels, walked on her hands, then skipped across a high balance beam as if she were strolling through a park. 

“Let’s do cartwheels when we get home,” she said. “How many do you think you can do, Suzy?” 

“Probably three or four,” I answered confidently. 

In the backyard Jernae made it look easy. She did two cartwheels and ended with a perfect somersault. “Your turn,” she said.  

I threw my hands over my head and put my feet in starting position. But suddenly I realized I wasn’t going to be able to do three cartwheels in a row. In fact, I wasn’t going to do even one. I was in shock. 

“I can’t,” I said, hardly able to speak. “What happened? I used to be able to do cartwheels, somersaults and handstands.”  

“You’re too old,” said Jernae. 

“What did you say?” 

“You’re over the hill,” she shouted as she laid on her back, and then pushed upward into a flawless arch.  

“Maybe I just need a leotard and ace bandages,” I said. 

“I doubt it,” she answered, now standing on her hands, her t-shirt covering her face. In one smooth motion she flipped over and stood up, placing her hands on her hips, her back straight, her head high. She looked tall and poised. The lessons were working. She was definitely gaining self-confidence. Now it was time to work on mine. 

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