Chapter Thirteen: Bonding Activities, Part One (What the Hell is a Gym of Awsome?)​​​

 

     The term “helicopter parent” was unknown in my childhood - my parents would have scoffed at the concept. Instead of helicoptering, my mom and dad raised my sister and me with a philosophy best expressed by my father after I intentionally launched myself off the top step of our second-floor stairway.

 

     Lying on the floor with my arm at a uniquely crooked angle, I opened my eyes to find my dad looking at me, a half-smirk on his lips.

 

     “I guess you’ll never do that again, will you?”

 

     Parental wisdom imparted, Dad then drove me to the emergency room.

 

     I never did jump down those stairs again, making up for that with several other bouts of idiocy. No matter the stunt, Dad’s comment was always the same. It was his Darwinian version of learning from experience.

 

     This hands-off philosophy extended outside our house as well. If I wanted to play with my friends, my parents just made sure I knew I needed to be home before dark. As far as mom and dad were concerned, kids hung around with kids, and parents hung around with parents. Except for supper and school events, mixed-age interactions were never encouraged.

 

     My sister and I never considered ourselves neglected. My parents never hovered, never drove down the street following us on Halloween, and never berated the umpires/referees at any of our organized sports. Jean and I had our freedom, and life was good.

 

     Alma grew up in a different type of household, her mother managing her husband and two daughters with all the subtlety of a prison guard in maximum security. Alma’s frequent rebellions growing up, the worst of which was marrying me, vexed her mother to no end. The two reached a genuine détente only after our announcement of Emily’s pending birth.  

 

     In contrast to her mother, Alma’s father professed to like me, if only as a passive-aggressive way of annoying his wife. When I dated Alma, I remember her father saying just two words in my direction, those two words consisting of “go ahead” when I asked for Alma’s hand in marriage. While I would have proposed to Alma regardless, I appreciated his definitive, if succinct, vote of confidence.

 

     Raised between the quiet and the crazy, Alma tended to vacillate between over-parenting and the laissez-faire approach I was familiar with from my youth. That wavering led to many disputes between us, most notoriously the Gym of Awesome.

 

     With a company name resembling a merger between a YouTube parody band and an LSD party, Gym of Awesome locations sprang up like weeds all over the Midwest in the decade before my children were born. Despite their cost and obnoxious line of clothing, the GOAs became the in-place for organized parent-child play that earlier, less enlightened fathers and mothers engaged in for free in the comfort of their own homes.

 

     I first heard of these hallucinogenic-sounding gyms from Cheryl, a Hillside marketing assistant who signed up her five-year-old son. After Alma realized she was pregnant with Emily, I asked Cheryl how things at the Gym were progressing.

 

     Our pleasant, perky marketing assistant, a woman who spent her Thanksgivings dishing out food in a homeless center, looked like she could slit my throat with her suddenly threatening Waterman pen.  

 

     “You want to know how things are going?  You sign up for these stupid gyms for bonding time, thinking your kid will somehow appreciate the effort. So what if the classes are all in the evening when the kids are guaranteed to melt down?  You go anyway, only to find they spend half of every session trying to sell you stuff – Awesome Gym pants, Awesome Gym shirts, socks, shoes, you name it. They even have a line of Awesome Gym disposable diapers, as if any kid cares what brand of diaper you put on his ass.”

 

     “The only problem,” Cheryl continued, “is that some parents are deluded enough to buy their crap. After that, it spreads like some modern-day plague, ‘Mommy, Allana has Awesome Gym shoes; can I have Awesome Gym shoes?’  You wouldn’t think a group of five and six-year-olds would notice those things, but believe me, they do. After you say no, you see the damn shoes on two more kids, then two becomes four. Pretty soon, there’s a whole roomful of children with the same shoes except your own kid who now thinks you’re the worst parent in the world. Welcome to bonding time for today’s generation.”

 

     A few weeks later, I noticed Cheryl looking considerably more relaxed. Fearful for her sanity, she confessed she had quit the Gym of Awesome only two months into her membership. She would, Cheryl professed, sooner go back to her deadbeat husband than walk back through those ridiculous Christmas-colored red and green doors.

 

     I only briefly mentioned this conversation to Alma. Newly pregnant, she had more immediate issues to deal with, and the Gym eventually slipped my mind completely. Then last month, Alma dropped her bombshell.

 

     “You and the kids need to get out more. There’s a new gym on Mayfield Road that takes parents and kids – It’s called the Awesome something or other. Anyway, I signed you up.”

 

     I took the news as well as you might expect, which is to say I didn’t take it well at all. I reminded Alma about my long-ago conversation with Cheryl at the hospital. My wife was not impressed.

 

     “You mean the assistant you said couldn’t write a coherent sentence if her life depended on it?  Why should we take her word on anything?  You can’t keep the kids inside watching Bugs Bunny forever. There’s a whole beautiful world out there. The three of you need to experience it.”

 

     If I wasn’t convinced, Alma’s next words sealed the deal. “You do this, or I’m going to call my sister and schedule some play dates with her kids.”

 

     Alma’s sister would prefer an anesthesia-free colonoscopy to spending any unnecessary time with her brother-in-law. Still, I couldn’t take that chance.   

 

     “You would do that to me after the beautiful gift I got for your last birthday?”

 

     “You got me a mixer.”

 

     “But it was a beautiful mixer – the nicest one they had.”

 

     "You need to spend more bonding time with our children – you are going.”

 

     “The only time my parents bonded with me was after the great glue disaster of ninety-two. All that non-bonding time, and look how I turned out.”

 

     All my logic bought was a very direct look. I was going - I would just need to make do as best I could. On the last day of April, a day somehow colder than the worst date in January, I bundled the kids up, strapped them into their assigned car seats, and set out for the Gym of Awesome.

 

     Whether due to complaints or fear of lawsuits, the Awesome Gym had changed its color scheme since Cheryl’s last visit. No longer red and green, the Gym’s new color was an impossibly bright purple, a shade I suspected nature had never seen before, or natural selection would have killed it long ago. Once inside the lobby, we were confronted by a life-sized image of … something. I assumed it was the Awesome Gym spokesthing - I had no idea what it was supposed to be.

 

     “Do you know what that thing is?” I asked Emily and Jack as we entered.

 

     “It looks like a dump truck with teeth,” Jack replied.

 

     His sister gave him a disdainful look, “You think everything’s a truck. Daddy, what do you think it is?”

 

     “I have no idea. It looks like a cross between a crocodile and Barney the Dinosaur.”

 

     “Is that good?”

 

     “Let’s just say I hope we never meet the real thing.”

 

     While still in the lobby, a young woman appearing no more than eighteen, asked us our names.

 

     When I’m in uncomfortable situations, I tend to make jokes. Rarely were they good jokes, but you could say I was making dad jokes long before I became a father. I responded without thinking.

 

     “My name is Joe King. This is my daughter Vye and my son Nosmo.”

 

     Apparently, the Gym of Awesome did not hire their employees based on IQ. Our bubbly teenage receptionist, Brenda by her name badge, affixed Jack with her most cheerful smile.

 

     “Nosmo - what an unusual name. Was that something handed down in your family?”

 

     Before Jack could answer, I jumped back in, “Not really. You see, Brenda, my wife and I couldn’t figure out what to name little Nosmo, but then she saw the no-smoking sign outside the delivery room door. After that, the name seemed like fate.”

 

     Suddenly catching on, Brenda’s expression turned considerably less cheerful. Attempting to remain professional, she soldiered on.

 

     “I don’t see your name on my list, Mr. King, or the names of your two children.”

 

     “I’m sorry - I screwed up. The names I gave you are real, but my wife signed us up with our witness protection names. Look for Alan, Jack, and Emily Lister, and try and forget what I told you earlier. That’s for your protection as well as ours.”

 

     Now genuinely alarmed, Brenda checked her list, handed us nametags, and pointed to the main entrance. I thanked Brenda for her understanding and her discretion. With that, the kids and I moved onto our next Gym of Awesome challenge.

 

     I noticed Emily looking at me quizzically as she, Jack, and I walked from the desk.

 

     “Daddy, why did you tell that woman our name was King?”

 

     “Sorry, honey – you know Daddy and his strange sense of humor.”

 

     “Is this something else I shouldn’t mention to Mom?”

 

     “You are wise beyond your years. Yes, I would appreciate you not bringing that up to your mother.”

 

     “Daddy, are all fathers like you?”

 

     “Only the fun ones.”

 

     The sound washed over us as soon as we stepped through the entrance. It wasn’t the screaming kids – I was used to that already. Instead it was the music. I thought at first it was Raffi, my least-favorite children’s entertainer. This sound, however, was somehow worse, higher-pitched, and even more insipid. It was as if Raffi had made a deal with the devil to reach a more lofty plane of banal.

 

     Reminding myself to bring earplugs to our next session, I hustled the kids into the main room, where we were greeted by Bob, our designated guide to awesome – that title was actually printed on his badge.

Bob greeted me as if we were long-lost best friends. Trying to get more in the spirit, I responded in kind.

 

     “It’s great to meet you, Bob. Can I address you by that name, or should I call you my guide to awesome?”

 

     “Bob is fine, Mr. Lister. Is it okay if I call you Alan?”

 

     “You surely can, Bob. I may not always respond, but that’s probably due to the hearing loss that set in the moment I walked in this room.”

 

     “I’m sorry. The noise can be overwhelming, but you will get used to it.”

 

     “I hope not, Bob. I really, truly hope not.”

 

     We were one of the last families to enter the Awesome Gym, and Bob brought us to order. The GOA grew almost quiet as kids and parents alike strained to hear Bob’s call to action.

“Are you kids ready to have fun?”

 

     Screams of approval greeted this question, some disturbingly emanating from my children. Bob, however, wasn’t nearly finished.

 

     “How about you parents?”

 

     I heard new sounds of approval, far more muted this time, as parents looked around and realized what their hard-earned dollars were funding. Bob continued.

 

     “And how about that soundtrack?  The MP4 can be downloaded for $19.95 on our website, but if you buy it today, it’s available to new Gym of Awesome members for only $12.50.”

 

     After Bob completed his GOA infomercial, he separated the children by age group; Emily ending up with the four to six-year-olds while Jack was stuck with the threes. Bob and his assistant Janet then led both groups in a series of age-appropriate activities, most of which could be done for free in one form or another in the privacy of any parent’s home.

 

     The activities included jumping jacks, a plastic slide, a bounce house, and a music area with kid-sized plastic flutes, trumpets, and, God help me, bongo drums. Add some pizza, and we might have been at Chuck E. Cheese. All the instruments, slides, and bounce items were stamped with the Gym of Awesome logo, and all were available for sale on the Gym of Awesome website.

 

     The last item/activity was truly unique; a green parachute that parents lifted up and down on top of their children while listening to Raffi-lite’s musical tribute to a green fuzzy monkey who climbed a tree to hide from his mother. The message was to encourage trust between parents and offspring. Long before its conclusion, I took issue with the song’s simian depiction.

 

     As instructed at the beginning of the session, I approached Bob, our designated guide to all things awesome.

 

     “Bob, I have a question about the song.”

 

     “You have a question?  It’s just a monkey song for the little kids. Kids like monkeys.”

 

     “Yes, they do, Bob, and that’s exactly my point. The green fuzzy monkey is trying to hide from his mother by seeking cover in a green leafy tree. Don’t you see the problem?”

 

     Bob was looking confused. When speaking with me, I noticed Bob looked that way often.

 

     “You didn’t respond, Bob, but I don’t mind giving you the answer. You see, monkeys, like dogs, only see in black and white. The little green fuzzy monkey could have achieved the same effect just standing by the tree trunk.”

 

     In truth, I had no idea if monkeys saw colors. I figured it was a pretty good bet Bob didn’t either.

Bob tried again, unsure whether I was joking or seriously deranged, “It’s really just a song, Mr. Lister.”

 

     “Is it, though, Bob?  I’m afraid this is just another way misperceptions concerning our fellow mammals become ensconced in today’s social fabric. If you’re not worried about the parents, Bob, think of the children. They are the future leaders of our society. Do you want to be responsible for spreading monkey misinformation to a group of kids who might grow up to be the leaders of the free world?  You need to think of our obligation to these children.”

 

     Bob’s calm, college student face was now sporting a hunted look, the same one worn by horror movie victims as they’re pursued through the woods. Looking for a solution, Bob did what most kids his age might do in his situation – he pulled out his cellphone.

 

     Giving me a plaintive look, he glanced at his phone and said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Lister, but I need to take this call. I’ll think about what you said, I promise.”

 

     “That’s all I can ask, Bob. That’s all anyone can ask.”

 

     Realizing Alma might object if I got us thrown out of class, I ceased torturing Bob and returned to the group of parents still in the process of smothering their children with a regulation-sized parachute. Usually, that might have seemed fun, but it suddenly occurred to me this was only the first of ten classes. How was I going to survive through week ten?

 

     I hoped the kids might have had the same Gym of Awesome experience I did, but I knew I wasn’t going to be that lucky. Sure enough, Jack and Emily greeted me after class with smiles and a level of enthusiasm rarely seen without ingesting large amounts of sugar. After listening to one more sales pitch for GOA clothing and play items, the doors were unlocked, and we were allowed to leave. As we did so, I noticed Bob moved as far away from the kids and me as he could without flattening himself against the GOA’s east wall.

 

     “Can we go back tomorrow, Daddy?” Emily asked on our way to the car.

 

     “I’m sorry, sweetheart, the classes are once a week.”

 

     We returned home, the kids still on their post-Awesome high, to find Alma at our kitchen table, completing some job-related paperwork. After greeting their mom, the kids promptly ran into the TV room for some last-minute television time. Alone now, my wife looked at me for the adult verdict.

 

     “How was the Gym?  Are we talking major-league awesome or just awesome as in thank God that idiot in the Subaru didn’t run me down backing out of his driveway awesome.”

 

     “Well, Jack and Emily think it’s the greatest thing they ever experienced. Keeping that in perspective, this week alone, Jack said the same thing in reference to a TV show, rigatoni noodles, and a flying monkey launcher we saw at the store.”

 

     “I know what Jack and Emily think. What about you?”

 

     “We may need to bump up our Advil budget, but I’ll survive. On the positive side, it was the first time I ever laid hands on a parachute. Remind me never to take skydiving lessons at any point in the future.”

“Got it – no skydiving. But you’re okay with going back?”

 

      “We signed up for ten sessions; ten sessions it will be.”

 

     As things turned out, however, our lessons ended at one. Jack, Emily, and I returned to the Gym of Awesome the following week to find a crowd of parents waiting outside the GOA’s main entrance. That mimicked our first-visit experience with one notable exception – there was no Bob, no Brenda, no GOA employees of any kind. Also missing was the voice of Rafi-lite serenading us with music about sloths, gerbils, or that session’s chosen mammal-of-the-week.

 

     I was disappointed. I thought Bob and I had developed a relationship, abusive perhaps, but still a relationship. Who would be this week’s guide to awesome?

 

     As it turned out, it would be no one. Emily, Jack, and I pushed closer to the front of the Gym’s small hallway, where a small crowd was forming in front of a large paper sign. After waiting my turn behind the other parents, I read the verdict – the sign’s title said it all:

 

Gym of Awesome Session Closed due to Lack of Staff

 

     The rest of the letter added more detail. The Gym apologized for the inconvenience, but the spring GOA session had been canceled due to unexpected staff turnover. Full refunds would be sent, and parents would be notified when a new session was scheduled.

 

     The father standing behind me offered his input:

 

     “I heard one of the parents got snarky with the staff in our first session. Bob and Brenda got freaked, and both decided to quit.”

 

     While I heard two muffled “thank Gods,” I couldn’t help feeling guilty. My cynicism had driven away Bob and Brenda, two committed Awesome employees. While we had never spoken, I had apparently even alienated Janet, Bob’s continually beleaguered assistant. I looked down at the disappointed faces of my children. They had figured on their own that something was very, very wrong.

 

     “Daddy, Jack asked, “why can’t we play today?”

 

     “I’m sorry, guys.”  Praying they would forget, I said, “I’ll try and sign you up for the next session.”

 

      Emily, my practical child, managed to rescue my faltering conscience,

 

      “The Gym is fun, but I like it better when we play at home.”

 

      “I thought you loved the Gym. You wanted to go back the next day.”

 

      “I did like it. Everything we did was fun, but that music was the worst. If they didn’t play that song, I would have had a better time.”

 

     Jack, shockingly, nodded his head in agreement. “The pare-chute and the slide were fun, but the music was bad. Can you make them stop it?”

 

     “There are some things, my son, beyond even my powers of persuasion. Let’s go home, and we’ll tell your mom the news. Since we’re coming back early, you can have some playtime before bed. I promise – no music allowed.”

​

     As Bob and Brenda might have said, it was a truly awesome ending.