The spandex-clad teacher pulled me aside, out of earshot from the other parents at the gymnastics class.
“We’d like to put your daughter in a developmental class,” she told me.
“She’ll be bored in here,” she said waving her hand toward the beginners — a few wobbly-legged kids and one or two with sickled feet.
My cheeks flushed. Her talent was obvious — she’d taught herself to cartwheel by the age of 2. My husband and I thought she was a natural, but it was nice to be confirmed.
The following week, I sat in the bleachers for 2 1/2 hours on Saturday at a morning class that acted as a fast track to the competition team. It was nearly double the price of the last class, but I reasoned that my daughter’s talent was worth the added expense — and the energy it took for me to entertain her baby brother during the lessons.
