B and I go to gymnastics on Tuesdays and Thursdays at an amazing kid’s gym called Bounce.

Hoops must be jumped through, color blocks navigated, summersaults attempted and ladders must be crawled upon. There isn’t much time to be social—I’m usually too busy corralling my son, who is both the youngest and easily the most enthusiastic. He likes to make a break for the trampoline room when he suspects no one is watching. So at any point in the forty-five minute class, you can expect to see me sprinting after my 16 month old, B giggling madly as he careens down the gym floor, other parents throwing themselves onto mats or color blocks to get out of the way, with me breathless, running after B, my fingertips just out of reach of his green “Stompin’ Dinos” t-shirt. The entire operation is nonstop action so that in between launching B over the large red hexagon thingamajig and holding his trunk at my shoulder height so he can practice swinging and kicking on the bars, sweat rivulets slide down my back and unkempt strands of hair stick to my face in clumps. At least three or four times each class you can here me shouting, “Get back here, you monkey. Tramps are pretty soon, right now we’re doing tunnel (or balance beam or hula hoop).”

Recently I found myself underneath the rainbow parachute, thankful for the break but wondering how long it was that I was expected to stay inside, pocketed in that musty, stale air. A guy I’d seen before was in there too, sitting Indian style, opening and closing the parachute flaps to allow air and his son to pass freely. Long, ashe blonde dreadlocks sprouted out from the dad’s head and intricate tattoos lined his arms and shoulders. His earlobes were elongated with holes as big as quarters.
It was his hands, though, that caught my eye. He had tattooed one letter on the knuckle of each finger. F-R-E-E, I read on the right. H-U-G-S, it said on the left. I grinned and quickly averted my eyes, hoping he hadn’t noticed me noticing. B pushed through the green flap and settled in my lap and dad pulled himself out from under our fort.

Later, near the bars, there was a break in the action so I tried to be social.

“Hi, I’m Emily. What’s your name?”
“Splat.”
“Nice to meet you Splat. And your son’s name, is it Free?” (I had heard him say his name before but couldn’t decipher whether it was Free or Creed)
“It’s Free.”
His son is a beautiful, white-blonde two-year-old who’s mighty skilled at the uneven parallel bars.

Later, at the end of the class, the kids fall into a pile in the middle of the springy gym floor waiting expectantly for Nasha, the teacher, to give them their stamps and glitter. She picks a cat stamp and starts branding. Some kids are organized--they’ve got their legs out in a pike. In other cases, feet are dangling haphazardly or skewed at uncomfortable angles and arms are crossed in front of chests so that Nasha must contort her body and reposition small limbs to do the stamping. My son, the smallest, quietly watches while Nasha rubs glitter on a little girl’s forearm. B’s patience surprises me-it is out of character for my agro little boy and I’m momentarily proud that he’s managing such good social manners. Free is on the other side of the girl and he’s also waiting patiently for his glitter. Nasha gets to Free last, but she is quick and in moments the kids are all branded and the smell of strawberry-scented glitter stick wafts through the gym. The pile disperses, each child running off in a different direction to show their parents the new look. But Free stays put. He wiggles on his knees and smiles shyly at Nasha with his father looking on right behind him.

“Where’s the Magic, Free?” his father cajoles. Dad isn’t condescending. There’s this nice, loving lilt to his voice.
“Come on now, let’s here the Magic.” A long pause ensues while all of us wait to see how the small boy will respond.
“T’ank youuuuu,” Free whispers while assessing his kitty stamp. His voice is so light and sweet.
“That’s right, Free. That’s the Magic.”

Indeed.