I spent the week before Easter with my grandchild delivery device and her gifts to me. (What? Mothers lose their names when they become “MOM!” Daughters lose their names when they create grandparents. It is the natural order of things, and should not be disparaged.) In that time, I saw my granddaughter in her gymnastics class, my grandson at speed and agility training and saw my first red-winged blackbirds, within sight of One World Trade. I also marveled at the pinball-like method of locomotion of the two grandbeauties.
My ten-year-old grandson’s loose-jointed way of moving is reminiscent of a kid “Frankenstein” with limbs he’s not learned to control. His brain sets his body in motion; his arms and legs struggle to coordinate with each other. My granddaughter spends every waking moment in frantic contortions on any surface: walls, floors, chairs and doors. Her resting position is upside down; ottomans and arms of couches are trampolines and balance beams. Last year my grandson played flag football, and when I watched him at practice and games, I was always surprised to see that he was able to go in the direction indicated by the play and arrive at the intended destination.
During my weeklong stay, I took my grandpuppies to spend a couple of days with their grandmother. My first bride lives in Harlem, within walking distance of Central Park. In the park, we watched as ducks practiced touch-and-go landings, looking for food. My grandson was content to watch from a distance, but my granddaughter rushed up to the edge of the lake and skittered to a halt just before she fell in. The ducks took flight. We left the park and took a trip to Liberty State Park, home of the Statue of Liberty and the Liberty Science Center.
Inside the science center, we released the hounds. The two children bounced from one exhibit to another, from birds to fish to spiders and snakes and interactive games. Before we left to return the scrubs to mom and dad’s house, the scramblers spent the last moments in the science center on a rock-climbing wall. On the way back to Cedar Knolls, New Jersey I watched my two “littles” physical interactions with their surroundings. I was reminded of an urban sport called parkour.
One dictionary source defines parkour as “the activity or sport of moving rapidly through an area, typically in an urban environment, negotiating obstacles by running, jumping, and climbing.” After an intensive, 5-minute research, and watching some examples of the sport on YouTube, I can confidently call it, “Jump On and Off Stuff.” Which is the way that my granddaughter and grandson move about.
My granddaughter can be counted on to come into contact with every surface near her. She moves through the world with complete abandon. When she crashes, she bounces up, saying, “I’m fine!” She lives on the edges of life: handrails, playground swings, benches, bridges and viaducts and disaster. I watch her in fearful anticipation of the bounce and the cry as she flings herself about in the playground. Her new gymnastics instructors have noted that she is fearless. Her brother is not fearless until he gets onto the football field. He torpedoes running plays from his linebacking position and drives through tacklers when he is carrying the ball. Off the field, his floppy, pigeon-toed amble does not carry him in a straight line to or from any place; he touches all the bases as he moves through his world.
But I love this part of their “kidcour” way of moving: they jump on, and collide with me.