Words by Michelle Fitzgerald // illustration by Rachael Wu
I’ve signed my sensibly cautious little four-year-old up to Little Ninjas. We’ve ditched our regular, safe and secure tutu-clad dance class with a T-Swift soundtrack for this new venture. I signed up on a whim after an advertisement popped up one night, my phone evidently eavesdropping on a conversation with my husband about pushing our daughter outside of her comfort zone.
What could possibly go wrong?
When we arrive at the massive warehouse in an industrial estate on the sharpest edge of town, we are met with a gigantic obstacle course of gladiator-sized proportions. The instructor vaguely resembles Russell Crowe, beard and all, but alas, there’s no spangly golden man-skirt in sight.
My daughter is physically shaking and on the verge of crumpled chin crying the minute we attempt and fail the first obstacle. The first obstacle is a multi-coloured snaked balance trail no more than 10cm off the ground. She sheepishly slithers her way around the trail, falling off every few foot shuffles in complete defeat. Nearby a tiny backwards-capped monkey man swiftly swings from bar to bar, metres in the air, like some sort of mythical jungle creature from Avatar.
My daughter side-eyes him in disbelief.
We’re not in dance class any more.
There’s no sparkly pom-pom Shake-It-Offs in this dusty arena.
We are strangers in a strange land.
To our left is a warped wall at least 6 metres high. Natural ninjas are scaling this wall, as if a vertical stroll up a 20 foot curved wall isn’t against nature and all she stands for.
I slowly mouth ‘what-the-fuck’ just loud enough so my daughter doesn’t hear, but Temu Russell Crowe has read my lips and tries to allay my fears.
‘Give it a few weeks Mum and she’ll be up there no wuckin’ furries!’
He laughs, pointing at Thelma. I laugh along, a little too loudly and quite frankly manically, because I too, am now on the verge of crumple chin crying.
A very large mistake has been made.
I only have myself to blame.
At this moment I wish for Twirly Tuesday ribbons and the soft dulcet tones of Emma-Memma. Instead we have Living On A Prayer and Wish Rusty who is now giving me the universal three-fingered rock and roll symbol in time with Richie Sambora’s guitar solo. I guess I should be grateful it’s not 30-Odd-Foot-Of-Grunt blaring through the speakers.
Weeks pass and Thelma spends most of the sessions standing by, observing. She participates as best she can, especially when they conduct the whole-class games, which she really enjoys. One week, we leave class to go for our usual sushi lunch date. We chat about her fears – it’s the heights that she’s most scared of and being one of only two girls in the class. We make a pact that next week, with my help and the support of the instructors, we’re going to try the scariest obstacles.
The next week rolls around and as we’re driving to Ninjas, I give her my best rehearsed Rocky pep talk in my best Rocky Balboa cotton-ball-mouthed accent.
“The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. But it ain’t about how hard you hit, it’s about how hard you get hit and keep movin’ forward. How much you can take, and keep movin’ forward. That’s how winning is done! ADRIEEEEEENE!”
Thelma looks at me like I’ve spontaneously birthed three heads from my neck, but she nods along slowly from my rearview mirror.
We enter the warehouse. There’s a spring in her step I’ve not yet seen. Something feels different. I make a beeline for the instructors and explain our goal for the session.
“Thelma really wants to try the obstacles, but she’s very scared. Can you please help us?”
They both nod enthusiastically and with my two recruits, we go to work.
Thelma does every single obstacle on the course – we’re talking a giant flying fox, 10-foot ropes course, rock walls, tightropes, the warped walls and a medieval wheel contraption she has to balance on and roll like some sort of roided-up Ratatouille. I help her where I can, but as a medically diagnosed vertically challenged shorty, it’s the instructors who support her the most. I cannot believe my eyes. On the highest obstacles, she pauses, physically shakes with fear, cries, but through her tears, she feels the fear and does it anyway.
I feel like I’m watching the Rocky Montage. Eye of The Tiger plays in the distance of my mind.
When she’s finished, we both jump up and down like absolute lunatics. I can’t hide the tears in my eyes.
As we drive to sushi, she tells me;
‘I’m so proud of myself. My tummy was scared, but I did it. I can do tricky things!’
This kid’s got grit. Determination. Heart.
I tell her what Micky Goldmill says to Rocky;
“Every champion was once a contender who refused to give up!”
Thelma roars at me like a fierce lion roaring in the Flavian Amphitheatre of Rusty’s Colosseum. Seconds later, she softly meows like a kitten and delicately licks her paws.
* * * *
“Gee Thelma’s come a long way! What a journey. She was so scared and now she gives everything a go!”
Temu Rusty’s right. I can’t believe this is my Thelma.
It’s the last week of term and the class has been asked to find an obstacle to hang from to see who can hang the longest – it’s been a weekly challenge. When they ring the bell to find our hanging obstacle, Thelma and I hold hands and rush to find the best one. With elbows out to ward off our competitors, I scissor-jump over a foam barrier in my bellbottom jeans like Dick Fosbury and Fosbury-flop-faceplant with a heavy thud in front of all the other parents and guardians. My glasses fling off my face and my phone shoots out of my pocket.
Without a single glance in my direction to ensure my wellbeing, whilst I blindly try to find my far-flung belongings like Mr Magoo, Thelma casually steps over me like I’m Carrie Bradshaw runway roadkill before finding a very high ring to hang from. She climbs up to the ring, waits for the timer to begin and hangs confidently. She hangs for 20 seconds. When we began Ninjas, she could barely hang for five.
She doesn’t win the 30-second challenge, but she’s chuffed all the same. When she ninja-jumps down, we high-five like two gym junkie dude-bros.
That night as I put her to bed, I tell Thelma how proud she should be of herself and how flipping proud I am of her for doing something so far beyond her comfort zone.
“Thanks for always holding my hand and helping me, Mummy.”
I try to pull myself together for my tough little Ninja, though my chin crumples, ready to cry.
If this isn’t the best part of parenting, well I just don’t know what is.
At times, I’ve sold my Thelma short, but she is brave beyond measure. She can do anything, through tears and fear. Any underestimation of my girl, you best believe, stops right here.
“So, can we please go back to dancing now Mummy?”
I breathe the biggest sigh of relief at the thought.
“Of course we can, my darling girl!”
And honestly, I’ve never been more excited to see a room full of 30 synchronised sparkly-spangled pom-poms shaking to T-Swift in my life.
Farewell Rusty’s dusty arena. You served us well.
But now it’s time to twirl some ribbons, pirouette and prance in pink, which in these dark global times, is a big middle finger to the world and punk rock as hell.
