Elation. Supreme satisfaction. Utter, undeniable glee. These are only a few adjectives to describe the way I felt uponrealizing I could do something that my husband can’t…yo-yo.
You need to understand something. I am married to one of those completely annoying types who excel at pretty much anything they do. You know the ones. “Wow, I had no idea that I even knew how to knit but I just put my mind to it and next thing you know I’veconstructed an entire wardrobe!” Or, “I just told myself that I would complete the Ironman and I did it…mind over matter.” Well, my matter is a bit on the jiggly side so unless my mind works miracles, I’m pretty sure there are no Iromans in my near or distant future.
I’ve never really tried to compete with my husband, Jer.In most cases, it would be completely futile, anyway. I remember coming home from the sporting good’s store with a brand new hula hoop my daughter begged me to buy. I put up a teensy bit of resistance at the checkstand but was secretly excited to get it home.
Until I tried it.
I can’t hula-hoop. Not even the slightest bit. Even to this day I don’t understand it. I’ve got the kind of hips made for birthing, enough rhythm to save me from humiliation on the dance floor and just the right amount of determination to master the thing. Except I can’t.The hoop literally refuses to rotate. It’s like the thing was protesting. I would turn the hoop, ready to do some serious hip gyrating and it would fall flat to the floor. I tried spinning the hoop up higher, right underneath “the ladies.” I swear I heard the hoop laughing. I even watched a YouTube tutorial hoping there was a chance that I was missing some important concept. Nope. I settled on the decision that this particular hoop was obviously suited for children andstood to the side while my daughter took over. My 6 year-old daughter. Who can hula hoop. I thought that was humbling enough until Jer comes sauntering into the living room, cockiness oozing from his very being.
“Whatcha got?” he asks.
“Mommy bought me a hula hoop. And I’m pretty good at it, I think,” Avery asks, her voice wavering with each undulation.
“Cool. Can I try?” Jer asks, stepping forward to accept the hoop while I sit down on the couch, snorting at the thought of Jer trying to hula hoop. I mean he has very little rhythm and no hips, notto mention the fact that this hoop obviously was not meant for adults. Obviously.So I prepare myself to laugh relentlessly at this doom for failure.
I’ll be damned. So, Jer can hula-hoop. Of course he can. The dude had moves. His hips were gyrating so smoothly I began to think he possibly descended from some ancient tribe of Tahitian firedancers. Jerk.
So it should come as no surprise that as soon as I learned that I held a certain talent over Jer I would celebrate…in the most obnoxious manner as possible.
It happened like this:
“Mom, can you do the yo-yo?” Avery asked.
“Um, I don’t think so. But, I’ll try” I answered winding the little string around my finger. I flicked my wrist, the yo-yo unwinded…and unwinded…and unwinded…and then like magic it hit bottom, I instinctively jerked the string and the yo-yo shot back up, winding furiously until it was nestled in my hand.
“Wh-wh-what happened? Did I just yo-yo?” I asked, growing excited.
“You did, mom! I saw it!” Avery answered, pride beaming from her face. (See, I told you I have no talent.)
I tried it again, and afterconfirming that I had indeed completed the act of yo-yo, I ran into the bedroom to tell Jer.
“That’s cool, Mindy. I can’t yo-yo,” he said.
“What? Of course you can, you can practically do anything,” I said.
“Seriously, I tried the other day and I can’t do it,” he answered.
“You…can’t…do…it?” I asked. Okay, I’m not proud of what I said next. “Oh, my gosh. I can’t believe you can’t do it…it’s so easy!” I said, channeling my inner grade-school bully at recess, my hand cramping from my furious yo-yoing.
“I guess it’s not too easy, Min, because I can’t do it. Here, I’ll show you.” Jer takes the yo-yo from me and loops the string around his middle finger. I look over at Avery, and wink.
He preps the yo-yo, shooting a “see, I told you so” look at me and lets it go.
Well, I’ll be a son-of-a-gun…he can yo-yo, too. Shocker.
He gave me a small smile. “Sorry. I guess I was doing it wrong before.”
“No problem,” I said. “I just thought I was finally the superstar at something.”
And then Avery, in all her wisdom from 6 1/2 solid years on this Earth says to me, “Well, I think you’re a superstar mom. You make great grilled cheese sandwiches!”
A family of yo-yos…