Lasterday

"Lasterday" is no more.

Finn retired his neologism--meaning the day before yesterday, or really any day that came before today--some weeks ago. And I know, I know. I should have told you this early, but I've been trying to cope with this reality on my own. Not the wisest decision. It is a big burden to bear. And I also know, as I'm sure you'll remind me, that you could've lent some wisdom or perspective that would have eased the transition, that you could have mitigated my pain.

Finn has been using this all-purpose word for year now. It appeared soon after those first words, blah, apple, and dada. Lasterday was mysterious.

"Mama, do you remember when we went to that big fountain?"
"When?"
"Lasterday."

And that could've meant the picnic we had the day before at the Plaza fountain. Or it could've meant the project Barry did at the fountain two years before. Or it could've meant the trip we took to Niagra Falls.

At first, I was resistant to lasterday. It wasn't precise. It didn't narrow down the temporal frame of possibilities. It just referred to some time before this particular time. And then Finn started narrowing its definition on his own. He found "yesterday," used it, but still kept lasterday to mark anytime that happened before that.

Lasterday worked for us. We started using it as a family. I took it into meetings. And like any signifier marking a previously unlabeled signified, it filled a void. It gave meaning to something that we had previously stumbled around.

And it was cute.

But in March, as we were talking about a movie we had seen lasterday, Finn corrected me.

"You mean 'the day before yesterday.'"
"Nope, it was lasterday."
"Not a word, mama."

And then, right then, I felt the crushing blow. Lasterday had been replaced by practical, conventional linguistic markers. A clunky, unelegant phrase. In that moment, we lost lasterday.

And not to overdramatize (but that's the way I work) I have to wonder what else?

Don't Hate the Player . . .

I've been keeping stuff from you. Secrets. Secrets that, had they any juice to begin with, are now dried up on the top shelf of clandestiny. You don't know about the failed diets, my trip to China, my all-nighters, my ill-conceived theories on the fifth Cyclon, and the struggles I have endured to cook, clean, and unpack those boxes that still haunt our hallway and now attic and closets . . . as little as possible.

(You can thank me--just push "Comments." And you're welcome.)

But one little glorious--and yet nettling--thing you missed over the past six months: Finn turned into a boy. And again, I blame the harbinger of my personal depression.

Kindergarten has introduced Finn to a new world of . . . ideas.

I told you once upon a time that he was reading. Well, he put that activity in the slow lane to develop new talents, like incessant talking, selective remembering, bad creative joke telling, dastardly plan hatching, worm squashing petting, sand-in-socks-and-shoes collecting, and . . . wait for it . . . flirting.

It started with a spunky little wisp-of-a-thing in his class. She's all glam-and-roll. Picture sequined Chucks in a zoot suit. Then he butted another girl (that's when you tap someone, rather vigorously, with your rear end), which we found out, after many evasions and even more tears, had little to do with her annoying him and much to do with him trying to "get her attention." Then he started playing dog hotel with yet another girl. (Have yet to tease out what that game is about. Suggestions welcome.) And a few weeks ago, he got a love note. From a first grader.

But don't think Finn is a fickle flirt whose intent is to collect girls like so many Bakugan. (Because I know that's exactly where you were going, "That Five, he's a playah!")

Finn may be experimenting with modes of social interaction, but he has always had just one crush. In fact, he will tell you--as he told me and our dental hygienist just yesterday--that he has and will always love only one girl, a postmodern princess from his previous school. (Cross a Precious Moments doll with a four-year-old Buffy and you'll get a general picture.)

So why the loyalty? What is it about this girl that prevents any other from truly entering his heart?

Well, I just asked him. His answer:

"Just because."

Boys.

To Finn, on his first day of kindergarten

About two hours ago, I abandoned you in your kindergarten classroom.

I walked you to your room and eased you into the classroom filled to fire hazard with five-year-olds, their parents, and more cameras--video, digital, cell phone--than an AARP tour group on a whale watching cruise.

Then I blew you a kiss, swallowed yours, and booked it out the door so you wouldn't see my inevitable and long-postponed (and planned) breakdown.



Sure, I say "abandoned." Based on your response, hoppy exuberance, and all caps glee--MY OWN LOCKER! and MY KIDS! and PLAY DOH!--I think you might choose a verb like "set free" or "liberated" or "finally unshackled from the oppressive, stifling bonds of a mother hell bent on dissing my vibe."

I've asked you--multiple times a day, unfortunately--if you were excited about kindergarten. And each time I did, you'd open your arms wide, so wide they bent around your back, and say, "Mama, I'm so excited." This surpasses any overextended voguing you've done for a Nana visit (sorry Nana), a playdate with one of your kids, or the promise of a Transformer. This, to date, is the most excited you've been about anything.

I'm so glad you don't take after me.

I always loved school--so much that I signed up for three extra years that I didn't have to--but each first day would put me into such a nauseous tizzy in my anxiety over unopenable lockers, labyrinth hallways, teeming kids and later adults, and germy play doh. Even when I taught school, I'd have to take shots of Pepto just to calm my nerves. First days were never my forte.

But kindergarten looks like it's your element. You have such high hopes for this year--that you'll find like-minded Lego lovers, that you'll do scientific experiments that test the bounds of electromagnetism, and that you'll finally, finally, finally learn to fly.



I can guarantee you'll find your Lego crew--and you'll make new friends who share your interests and open your eyes to new wonders. You'll also learn of the dangers of cooties--and, if you're lucky--one of those new friends my inoculate against further infection by that insidious disease. (Or you can self-mediate: Step one: circle. Step two: another circle. Then three dots. That is the cootie shot.) You'll learn how to follow the crowd and stand up for yourself. You'll witness snark, smarm, and generosity of spirit. You may even find your best forever friend, or your first love, among the kids who share this first day with you. And you've just met the first teacher whose influence and passion you'll remember for the rest of your life.

Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure you won't be doing any Faraday experiments. And sometimes, I'll also guarantee, you'll find kindergarten a bit slow. You already know how to do so much--you can read a little, you make friends easily, you can build elaborate aerodynamic objects d'art with the aforementioned Legos, K'Nex, Tinkertoys, Lincoln Logs, you crack jokes at a whim. But don't let your talents keep you from accepting what others have to offer. You came into this classroom with confidence, imagination, and wit. Share it. And embrace the talents of others who are different from you--who can tie their shoelaces, who can make savory mud pies, who carry their magic in their hearts instead of in their hands. Discover them, too.

And as for that last bit about going airborne? I think I may have set you up, kid. There's been a lot of Harry Potter, Peter Pan, and Willa Wonka talk in the Anderson household. I hate to disappoint, but you won't be getting a Firebolt this year. Or next. Your teacher won't be distributing pixie dust or popping bottles of fizzy lifting drink. But there's a world out there, Finn, that's just waiting for you, a world of magic and wonder whose doors and windows and chimneys will open to you if you just believe in it.

And I will tell you this--although you may not literally soar through the air on a magic carpet anytime soon, this year, you will learn how to fly.

Monday Nights

From the bathroom: Thump. Thump, thump . . . thump.

Me: You okay?

Finn: Yeah.

Finn: . . .

Finn: But the toothpaste isn't.

Introducing . . . Five!

Finn: "Okay . . . that was bad. Papi! We need some more toilet paper."

Today You Are Five

Dear Five,

Welcome to our home. You'll find everything you need here--provided that what you need is similar to what Four needed: the spontaneous appearance of cupcakes, freezer-burned waffles, and the occasional eggs in shell; a teeming vat of Transformers; and the ability to pause Super Why or Ben 10 Alien Force when you find that rare Something Better to Do than watch four hours of television.

But I must be candid with you. We liked Four. Correction, we adored Four. Four has been our favorite so far, and we'll be sorry to see Four go. Four was smiles and happiness and please and thank yous and hugs for no reason at all. Four listened--at least more than Three did--to our requests, reasonable or not. (I can't say Four always followed through. I can't say he always "eared us"--but Four mastered the Look of Listening.) Four was incomplete Knock-Knock jokes, he was scatological (butt I don't have to poo you that), he read to us at night, and he liked to hide, spin, and race, even though it was never really a race and we never really winned him unless Four beated us.

Four wasn't all good times, though. Four liked to whine--and if there's one request (well, a first request) that we'd make of you, we'd like you to park that at the door along with your muddy shoes, please. Four liked to cry at things we found inconsequential--like not being able to have five more minutes with the sidewalk chalks even though we had already given him an hour or not getting a popsicle at demand or not being able to have a cupcake at breakfast. Four had definite and firm ideas about what he wanted--and we're all about definite and firm ideas, but we'd just ask that you, the much more mature Five, maybe ask for those things before you engage the meltdown. We think that would be really cool.

But despite all the whining and occasional tears at the trivial, Four was a boy. We can't remember a week that Four didn't have a new bruise or a scrape or want a pirate band-aid to cover up some skirmish he had with a stick or a stone. And Four wore his boy-ness like a badge of honor. Sure, Four sometimes liked to pretend that he was a baby. He'd fake "waa" and ask me to bundle him and rock him to fake sleep. He'd crawl around the house and "goo goo" (and then, moments later, mysteriously morph into a panting, barking dog).

And sure, as we mentioned above, sometimes the remnants of baby-ness would get the better of him. But when he heard you were coming, he embraced the boy within and started to put the baby aside. He started talking about things that you would like to do, that he didn't: "Five will jump into a pool" or "Five won't whine as much as I do" or "Five will get to watch scary movies and play Grand Theft Auto." (Sorry, Five, that last bit, not so much gonna happen.)

We're excited you're here, Five, and even though we'll miss Four dearly, we can't wait to see what you'll be like. So please, come on in, take your shoes off, get settled in, and, if you need anything, please ask.

And Then Finn Threw His Bra on the Stage. Oh, Maybe That Was Me. My Bad.

We took Finn to his first concert festival yesterday. They called it Jiggle Jam, and it's a weekend full of seedy booth wares and bouncers, miniature hookahs that blow nonstop bubbles, face painting that made every kid look like an extra from Apocalypse Now, the unrated version (joke provided by Dennis!), a water fountain of nymphic decadence (and rather unfortunately, I mean that a little more literally than I would like), the lilting (and now I'm going ironic) jams of kids' music--all topped by a rousing performance (meow!) by They Might Be Giants.

(What is it about musician dads with hipster flair that gets to me? Bear, I think you started it.)

Finn, liberally doused with equal parts sunscreen and sugar, loved it. We met up with a few handfuls of his chums and he climbed, accosted, and boogied his way through about three hours of the festival before we made it to the culminating concert--a full hour of They Might Be Giants' ABCs, 123s, and adult sing-a-longs. (Istanbul!)

I have to admit, I had a lot of expectations for the concert--mainly because I haven't been to a live music anything on this side of forever--and They Might Be Giants fulfilled.

But I had other expectations that, unfairly, were all wrapped up in Finn and his reception of his first "rock" concert.

I imagined him screaming in recognition and delight as They Might Be Giants took they stage with the "Alphabet of Nations." I imagined him clap and stomping with abandon to "Clap Your Hands," sweat scattering in slomo like Peckinpah squibs. I imagine him reaching a banshee pitch, ripping his hair out, stripping off his t-shirt and waving it around, salivating, his eyes full of tears, when they sang "No"--in a feverish identification with a band that finally understands who he is and how much absurdity he has to put up with.

That didn't so much happen.

Finn sat and then later stood, front row center, and watched the concert. He clapped, mostly at the end of songs. And he asked to leave the concert early to get an ice cream.

Maybe it's because he didn't know any better?

To provide context, this is the first full-scale hootenanny we've ever taken Finn to. There have been no monster trucks or Disney characters on ice or other freakishly scary children's concert extravaganzas. (The circus scared him.) And most of that was done with deliberate calculation.

As much as we could, we've limited Finn's exposure to the Wiggles and folk music. We didn't announce tour schedules. And when his toddler buds swaggered into those forbidden conversational territories, drunk off juice boxes and eating out of the dog bowl, we'd whisk Finn off to other, more acceptable topics of conversation. Like, who should Buffy choose, Spike or Angel? (Finn says, "Spike. And Angel . . . Buffy should choose.")

So it's not his fault that Finn didn't lose control when presented with some fortysomething hipster dads. He hasn't been instructed on the art of mania.

Don't get me wrong. Finn throws a good fit. He's well-versed on tantrum. The difference lies in the fine line between excited aggression and aggressive excitement.

Or maybe it's just the difference between what he wants and what we do.

It's Not Really Mother's Day without a Hydra Death Match

I woke up yesterday thinking this year's mother's day would generally follow the direction set out over the previous four installments: I wake up (even though I don't want to), breakfast near bed, receive a homemade something something, and then lay out my trail of incessant and uncompromising desires that have finally broken ground after a full of year of tantrums and whining have beaten them to inevitable yet reluctant surrender.

(I so do love getting my way. At least one day of the year.)

And, for the first three hours, I was right. Mother's day followed a predictable and yet still joyous path. There was an omelette and a bowl of tea. Finn made me a card that he snipped and glued himself. Barry gave me a book of essays (even though I am decidedly not his mother--go ahead and put all those rumors away).

And Finn "gave" me a Golden Compass, from the movie of the same name, that he quickly co-opted, under the guise of "showing me how it works."

But that's not where things went awry. Even I could see that one coming.

After food, card, and treats, we decided to go for a one-mile hike through a nature trail near our house. I decided. (Whoop. Wish equals command.) But with Golden Compass secured safely in its purse and slung around his shoulders, Finn quickly announced the mission: find Narnia.

So we set out. Our water turned into elixir, our path turned to adventure. We were looking for anything out of the ordinary that might lead us to a gateway to another world. We jumped rivers of lava, we hid from ogres, we climbed a mountain. We deftly yet narrowly escaped enchanted nettles that reached out from the ground with their poisonous tentacles. We deciphered clues disguised as a self-guided walking tour. We successful traversed the dangers of the Waterfall of Nefarious Intent.

And then, just when we thought we had survived all the challenges of the nature trail turned evil forest, we met the five-headed hydra, camouflaged under a big pile of glass clippings.


But we weren't fooled. We had our eyes open. Using Finn's magic and my knowledge of mythic creatures (reading is power!), we defeated that hydra and left the forest much better than we had found it. And relatively monster free.

I think mother's day got an upgrade, too.

So That's It? A Switch Just Goes Off?

For the third year running, we're inflicting soccer on Finn. Or inflicting Finn on soccer. And for the third year running, Finn, as new player on new team, has earned himself yet another new soccer ball and yet another new soccer jersey.

The world of sports and overindulgent wardrobing. The excess of it!

We do, however, have higher hopes this year. This year, unlike last year or the year before for that matter, will be different.

Last year, we went into the soccer season fully resigning ourselves to the fact that Finn would probably hate it. Again. And yet, there we were. On the field, ball in hand, pushing Finn into the vicious toddler fray with demonstrative amounts of force. Finn would lag behind the pack of toddlers, cry because he tripped over the ball, and end up picking daffodils or cheering on the team--either his or the opponents, it didn't seem to matter--from the sidelines. Lots of bouquets, lots of cheering, not a lot of playing

But somewhere, deep down, we believed in this. In soccer, in team sports, in pain and torture and forcing Finn to do something he obviously doesn't want to do.

(Did I ever tell you about piano lessons? Yeah, that wasn't always pretty. But do notice the past tense. We are capable of evolving.)

And yet here we are again. At 1 p.m. on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. We could be at the park or flying a kite or dueling with lightsabers or hunting eggs--any of the number of things that Finn actually likes spending his Saturday doing. But instead we are playing soccer.

Because Finn asked for it.

What?

Yes, Finn asked to play soccer. Not out of some misguided memory, but because many of his friends from school are playing on this team. So we signed him up, got a new ball, new jersey, and headed for the fields.

And Finn actually played. He dribbled the ball, he got trompled and got back up--without tears, he reveled in grass stains and shin kicks and even asked the coach if he could go back in for more. Yes--instead of cheering.

And the piece de resistance, coup d'etat? Take a listen?

Me: "What was the favorite part of your today?"

Finn: "Well, it's the same things as lasterday."

Me: "Ice cream? Playing Transformers?"

Finn: "Nope."

Me: "Well?"

Finn: "Soccer."

Now Accepting Applications to the BPP Club

As I'm about to write about Finn's newest passion, I'm concerned. Not about sharing this with you. No. Because you know by now that I'll share just about anything. Want to hear about my boobs? Done. Want the inside scoop on my colonoscopy or other invasive tests? I am your source. Want to hear about the consistency of baby feces? Oh, well, you should really speak up, then.

No, what concerns me are the Google ads that are about to pop up over there when I tell you about Finn's new club:

The Boobie Butt Penis Pee Pee Poopie Club (also known as the Poopie Boobie Penis Club and dba The Funny Words Club)

The club only has three members right now: Finn, its founder; me (I am the inaugural member, score!), and Bear, who was invited yesterday, after much contemplative consideration. (Finn really had to think that through. Do I expand the club so soon? Will that aggressive growth somehow dilute my mission, whatever that mission may be? Will Papi "get it"? Will he be able to truly share in the club's values and vision?)

I suppose the club was born out of Finn's need to somehow formalize his--what's the word? overbearing? relentless?--love of the aforementioned words, words that he deftly, but most of the time just plain awkwardly, places in any sentence, with complete disregard to the original part of speech.

These words appear as adjectives: "Mama, shouldn't we take the boobie turn now?" "Mama, do we need more poopie bread?"

(In case you're wondering, no. We don't need any more poopie bread, thank you. Well-stocked.)

These words appear as nouns: "Knock, knock." "Who's there?" "Butt." "Butt who?" "Butt penis . . . boob."

These words appear as verbs. Oh, you know they do: "Mama, I butted you." (That really needs a video accompaniment, although if you hang with us long enough, say for more than three minutes, you will see it.)

What they haven't done yet is function as an adverb, but I am truly (sincerely, without irony) looking forward to the day when Finn tells me, "Mama, I love you buttly."

Right butt at you, kid.

Uh, ouch.

Finn: Mama, was there a time when I didn't want you to go away?

Me: . . .

Of Course, I May Live to Regret This

Yesterday, Finn decided he wanted to cook. So we pulled out some bowls, spoons, measuring cups, candied sprinkles, glitter, and food coloring and cleared a chunk of real estate on the kitchen floor. And then he stirred sprinkled, and poured for, really, hours. (Or maybe it was just a long series of minutes. But they were consecutively occupied by the brewing.)

He was so involved that I went into the other room and . . . did stuff.

Actual stuff.

Like, on my own.

And then I got worried. Where were the incessant pleas for mama or television? He must have sampled his own concoction and was now quietly flailing on the floor and foaming at the mouth, awash in red-and-blue-makes-purple.

I abandoned my free time--it was a little overwhelming anyway--and peeked into the kitchen to see if I had indirectly poisoned my child with lack of parental supervision.

But there he was, stirring, adding more glitter.

"Whatcha doin'?" That would be me asking.

"Making a transformer." That would be him.

He picked up another bottle, uncapped it, and add it to the brew. What was it? Garlic salt? And what was that beside the garlic salt? Onion powder? Dried basil leaves? Chili powder? Lemon pepper?

Finn had raided the spice rack and was seasoning his little Golem (and our floor) with every salt, pepper, and herby product we had.

It was a complete mess. And I was happy.

Wha?

That can't be.

I am notoriously uptight. And even if that weren't the case (stop laughing, I can hear you), I am genetically disposed to not being happy about situations precisely like this. The Mom would have thrown a righteous and glorious fit. If her spice rack had been within my reach.

So what's with the joy? I don't know. I love to see imagination run wild. I love the independence of my kid. I like glitter and I know how to work a vacuum. But I also love knowing that Finn had an idea and jumped into the spice rack to realize it. I like that my child is not a guest in his own home.

(Of course, that probably means I should lock up the liquor and the porn.)

We Are So Fond of Our Young Prince

"He's all my exercise, my mirth, my matter,
Now my sworn friend and then mine enemy,
My parasite, my soldier, statesman, all:
He makes a July's day short as December,
And with his varying childness cures in me
Thoughts that would thick my blood."

--William Shakespeare, A Winter's Tale

Mama, What Are "Goals"? (or I Sound So Much More Reasonable in the Morning)

Me: "Well, goals are things you want to do. Like write a book or build a treehouse. Or a goal could be something you want to be when you grow up. What do you want to be when you grow up?"

Finn: "A player."

Ode to Four and Three Quarters

[I'm stealing this idea, blatantly and with no remorse or apologies whatsoever (although I will cite!), from Notes from the Trenches--and from a writing prompt I used to give my seventh grade students.]

I want to remember how you demand oatmeal for breakfast. Followed by Cheerios. Followed by a peanut butter and jelly sandwich that you end up eating in the car on the way to school.

I want to remember the peanut butter kisses that you then smear on my cheek as I drop you off at school.

I want to remember how you used to cling to my leg and beg me not to leave you.

I want to remember how you used to catch my kisses and put them on your heart--and how now, instead, you eat them.

I want to remember how you now stride off eagerly, confidently, almost forgetting to blow me a kiss goodbye.

I want to remember your curly toes and your adamantly straight hair.

I want to remember how your head smells like roasted marshmallows. And I want to remember how you bust me with, "Mama, are you smelling my head again?" but then sit still and let me inhale those last notes of your babiness.

I want to remember your fake burps.

I want to remember how your giggle lights up the room.

I want to remember how your fingers like to flirt with the holes of your mank and the edges of my ponytail.

I want to remember how you love lip gloss and fingernail polish.

I want to remember how you found your funny in all things that rhymed with "poop."

I want to remember how you turned down soda because your tummy didn't hurt right now and how you'd eye-patch before we could even change the channel.

I want to remember how, at Four and Three Quarters, you fell in love with your mama again, giving me spontaneous hugs, jumping on my back, bestowing your fake burps full in my face, and telling me that you love me more than I love you. Even though, my widget, that's not even possible.

Sleeptalker, Part Deux

Last night, I went in to Finn's room to check on him, restoke his "fire" (re: humidifier), and clear off the 17 books he had collected on his bed while he was "going to sleep." (Yes, I counted.)

He was rolled up in his comforter, his mank (re: blankie) tucked under his head. As I restoked and cleared off, he woke up for just a second, to give me, with just one word, yet another peek into his dreams:

"Transform."

Sleeptalker

Tonight as I walked by Finn's room on my way to bed, I heard him call out to me.

"Mama?"
"Yes, Finn."
"Can I get an extra water bottle because I'm still very dirty."
"A water bottle?"
"Uh huh."
"Because you're dirty."
"Uh huh."
"I'll get right on that."

So this is what Four and Half dreams about.

Faker!

Finn has found great humor and wonder in the fake burp.

He'll bring it out any old time, after we eat, when I'm giving him a bath, after a particularly good story. Somehow, he knows deep down that it's a gesture of appreciation--a job, a moment, a reading well done. I don't know if he's been hanging with ogres or folks from cultures who revere the burp, but Finn has adopted it as his own calling card and sign of approval.

He enters and exits the day with a belch.

This morning, Bear and I were arguing over who knows what. I've been in a perpetual bad mood for the past four days. Ever since I pulled in all-nighter to finish up a freelance job. Or maybe the funk travels with the nasty little piece of yucky I have to finish for tomorrow. Anyway, I've been bitchy and this morning, I found ample opportunity to let it out on the first person I saw, like some opposite-world love potion.

And Bear was game. He doesn't tend to let me ride through my fits, but to challenge and even CALL ME ON THEM. That bastard.

So today we rumbled over fiber content in my Kashi cereal or if he was going to do this Master Cleanse with me because I know he said he would and he knew he said, "Like hell" or something something, and we hit an awkward moment, where I realized I was being a Master Poo, but refused to admit it. Or speak.

Yes, I pulled out the silent treatment. Because I am 37 and mature.

And just then, when I was still on fumes and Bear was about to revel in his moral rectitude, there came from the peanut gallery a righteous, BEEEEEELLLLCCCHH. Followed by an assortment of bubbly giggles.

I tried so hard, dear readers, to glare, to visually condemn the insolent little muffin who had interrupted my mood.

But all I could do was laugh.

Portrait of the Artist as a Stick Figure in a Fat Suit

Move over Marcel Marceau: There's a New Mime in Town

It started with an abandoned cardboard frame. (Imagine an unhinged triangle.) I grabbed it and made it into some clamping crab claws. Then Finn grabbed it and made into . . . say it with me now . . . a gun. And we were off.

It's a heart.

It's a steering wheel.

It's a . . . frame?

Real creative, mama.

(My favorite: Finn bumped the two ends of the frame against each other and gave me this hint.

Finn: "It's what you do after you get married."

Me: . . .

Finn: "Dancing!")

When we exhausted the prop chest, we moved into unassisted charades. Bear would whisper "an action" to Finn. He would act it out. I would guess. I can't say I got all his interpretive clues--it is his first go at the fine and respected art of miming.

I mean, who wouldn't confuse skateboarding with synchronized swimming?