Matthew is taking a gymnastics-for-kids-whose-parents-sign-a-waiver-saying-we-won't-sue-if-he-breaks-his-neck class. He gets quite a kick out of it. He tells anyone who will listen about the "big swing," which is what he calls the hanging rings. He also gets homework: Rachel gets to drill him on hopping on one foot and walking backwards. I've tried, without even registering.
Dad: “Come on, Matthew: let's hop like this."
Matthew: "Play outside! Play outside!"
Come to think of it, that's how most of my conversations with my son go.
The gym also offers "drop your kid off for all the running around and sugar-infused drinks he can handle" on Friday nights. For a nominal fee, of course. Matthew likes this even more than the actual class, if possible. (Rachel: "likes" isn't a strong enough word.) We literally had to drag him away, kicking and screaming. (Rachel: "I got him calmed down before we left. But he was not happy to see us.")
So Matthew and his parents both have something to look forward to on Fridays.
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