Suburban gymnastics

Fiona likes gymnastics. I enrolled her in a gymnastics camp at the community center this summer and she had a great time, so I found out what gym had provided the instructors and signed her up for lessons there. She loooves it. Me, not so much. This isn't just "having fun" gymnastics, this is a "serious school for the sport of gymnastics" kind of place. An Olympian was trained there.

I inadvertently signed Fiona up for the session that is taught by the owner of the gym and thus, I signed myself up for dealing with psycho sports parents. The kind that have had their kids in gymnastics since they were 18 months old and drive miles and miles out of their way to put their four year old into "the best training facility in the state."

The parent that irritates me the most is French Dad. He is not only a psycho sports parent, he is a psycho sports parent who only speaks French when his child is around. I know he was born here and speaks English as his first language, because I have had a short awkward conversation with him , but now whenever he sees me he says, "Bon Jour!" Dude! I get it! You're Cool-Bilingual-Dad-Who-Is-Teaching-His-Child-French! You don't need to bon jour me, buddy. I already know how fabulous you are with your hothouse children. I'm not sure exactly why he irritates me so much. Maybe because he was all weird and competitive when I told him that this was Fiona's first year in gymnastics. Maybe because I hate the French.

I'll have the last laugh though when Fiona triumphs over the adversity of not starting lessons until she was five and wins not only the gold but a multi-million dollar movie deal about how hard it was to be the only non-French speaking child in gymnastics. We'll see who's crying then, won't we, French Dad!