Give Me Ten!
"Try to keep your back straight," I said.
Gabriel, prone on the floor, pushed up with his arms. He gave it his best shot – just like in his Tae Kwan Do class. He counted. "1! 2! 3!" He pumped with his arms, his knees, his butt. It was a unique interpretation of the push-up form.
And I was there, doing push-ups with him. I modeled push-ups for him: my back straight, my arms in the right position. I did ten beside him. I, Dad, was training my son to do push-ups.
Sounds like a great Father-Son Moment, right? It does, provided you've only known me this century. If you knew me in the prior century, that old 20th century, you're laughing way too hard to read this. I'll wait.
You see, during school, you wouldn't have mistook me for a push-up instructor. I was the guy doing an elective instead of PE, freed by a doctor's note excusing me due to asthma (and, later, head trauma, but that's a whole 'nother story).
In elementary school, you wouldn't have thought Push-Up Guy either. My hand-eye coordination was awful (something my genes have decided to share with my kids). My parents have pictures of me as a todder, preparing to throw a ball two-handed and overhead, and tipping myself backwards. My hand-eye coordination improved with significant support from five years of adaptive PE (and, in my opinion, the Dawning of the Golden Age of Arcades), but I was far from being a star athlete.
So, for the past few nights, I have had to dredge out murky, distant memories of PE coaches trying (really, really trying) to teach me to do push-ups and sit-ups. I think I've got the forms right (even doing the full sit-ups, not the whimpy half sit-ups). We do ten of each nightly, practicing for Gabriel's participation at his dojo.
Hannah and I exercise together, too. She and I focus mainly on standing and walking with support. These are two things I've actually mastered myself.
Ok, old friends & family, stop that snickering. Really.
-- Dad
Gabriel, prone on the floor, pushed up with his arms. He gave it his best shot – just like in his Tae Kwan Do class. He counted. "1! 2! 3!" He pumped with his arms, his knees, his butt. It was a unique interpretation of the push-up form.
And I was there, doing push-ups with him. I modeled push-ups for him: my back straight, my arms in the right position. I did ten beside him. I, Dad, was training my son to do push-ups.
Sounds like a great Father-Son Moment, right? It does, provided you've only known me this century. If you knew me in the prior century, that old 20th century, you're laughing way too hard to read this. I'll wait.
You see, during school, you wouldn't have mistook me for a push-up instructor. I was the guy doing an elective instead of PE, freed by a doctor's note excusing me due to asthma (and, later, head trauma, but that's a whole 'nother story).
In elementary school, you wouldn't have thought Push-Up Guy either. My hand-eye coordination was awful (something my genes have decided to share with my kids). My parents have pictures of me as a todder, preparing to throw a ball two-handed and overhead, and tipping myself backwards. My hand-eye coordination improved with significant support from five years of adaptive PE (and, in my opinion, the Dawning of the Golden Age of Arcades), but I was far from being a star athlete.
So, for the past few nights, I have had to dredge out murky, distant memories of PE coaches trying (really, really trying) to teach me to do push-ups and sit-ups. I think I've got the forms right (even doing the full sit-ups, not the whimpy half sit-ups). We do ten of each nightly, practicing for Gabriel's participation at his dojo.
Hannah and I exercise together, too. She and I focus mainly on standing and walking with support. These are two things I've actually mastered myself.
Ok, old friends & family, stop that snickering. Really.
-- Dad
