Gym Girl has to scratch bars this week-end. I don't think either one of us were anticipating this, and frankly without the support of her coaches, I would have caved.
She is fine. No pain. John, the amazing, wonderful, physical therapist I took her to see for a second opinion, agreed with my plan, explained to her the dangers of starting back early, put her on a stabilization program. And she is fine. No pain. Yesterday, I got to her gym ahead of her, taped her arm, talked to her coaches, and went through the formality of getting her up on the bar. Hang. Pull over. Drop. Swing. No Pain. Check the arm for displacement. CLUNK. Not click; CLUNK. Put on grips. Kip. Swing. Check shoulder. Clunk. One last time. Clear hip. Tap swings. Have coach feel it also. Clunk. Grind. Crap!
As I'm starting to realize it is NOT a good idea, she is very excited that she has no pain. Thank god for her coach! He suggested that she scratch bars. Totally unacceptable to the Wild Child. I gave her the alternative to not compete at all. Not happy about that, either, but scratching bars is a slightly better option. Her coach totally took the fall. He told her it is a COACHING decision, not one that her mom gets to make. Of course, if it was not for me, none of her coaches would have known she got hurt. It is ALL MY FAULT. I watched a little of her practice. She is strong. I haven't watched her in a long time. She looks great. And she is barely talking to me.
Nothing like the icy coldness of pre-teen angst. Antartica could not be colder.
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