It's all over my daughter. On her face, on her hands, on her hips, on her legs. Lord love a duck, it's even in her hair. When I commented on it, she said "Hello? I'm a gymnast mom. Chalk, blisters and sore muscles. It's what it's all about." Guess she told me (for the record, she wasn't snotty about it, just stating the facts).

My little girl. My youngest. My 10 going on 85 year old anxiety ridden, tantrum throwing worry wart. She is in gymnastics. She is my accident waiting to happen. She is fearless, and that fact alone scares me to death. People? She is in gymnastics. Where they flip and flop on the floor, and twirl around on the bars, and balance on a long beam of wood that is unbelievably thin (in my mind at least). And did I mention that they run full speed towards this thing they call a vault? Yeah, this is what causes me to drink. And raise the dose on my anti-anxiety/depression medications.

She is having a blast. Or at least she would be if she didn't have one of the meanest coaches in the world. Those are her words, not mine. He is from Russia. He is tough. Sometimes his translations get a bit mixed up and perhaps he comes off a bit harsh. My baby? She is the sensitive one. I was like that as a child, and perhaps I'm a bit like that now, only better (don't say a word Mom). So far, minus one really bad night, she has stuck with it. She continues to go back. She continues to be thrilled with each and every little thing she accomplishes.

Three hours, three days a week. Every week. My little sweaty, stinky exhausted baby girl. She is happy, and it shows. Whether or not it continues? Time will tell. But for right now? I am grateful. She is happy. It's been a long, tough road, but I think we might have found the right exit off of the freeway.

Happy Love Thursday everyone. My hope is that you enjoy your children as much as I do, and rejoice when they find the ground under their feet.