A is for Advent: A Three-Year-Old's Perspective

B is for Beam

The narrow wood is hard under Timmy's bare feet. He's scared. He tries to grip its glossy surface with his toes, as if a tighter hold would make him forget about the death drop on either side. He can see the floor, but it's so, so far away.

He can't grip anything with his toes, so an outstretched hand tightens its grip on Mum's hand as she walks next to the balance beam.

Timmy leans forward a little, countering the steep incline of the beam. So steep. So high. He inches one foot further along, caterpillaring his toes along the surface.

Then the other foot.

He teeters. A whimper spills past his lips and he grips Mum's hand tighter still.

He's going to fall.

He's going to die.

The floor looks as hard as the beam, and it's coming for his face now. He can feel one of his feet flailing, the beam sporadically vanishing as he tries to find it.

Both his arms are gripping Mum's arm now, which is wrapped around the front of his waist. He didn't see it happen, but now it's quelling his forward pitch.

It's not enough. The arm stops him from hitting his face on the sloped wood in front of him, but his feet are in air and it doesn't stop his fall.

The beam had been incredibly high when he'd had both feet on it, but now he finds that while he has one foot still crouched there, the other has its toes pushing against the floor. His arms are gripping Mum's. Desperate.

Enough. This isn't fun. He wants to get off.

He tries to adjust his weight to lean into Mum. He can feel an arm steadying him from behind, too—that must be why he's still standing. But Mum's locking her arms. She doesn't push him back on, but she's not letting him off, either.

Timmy is still, braced on the beam and on the floor, and a panicked whine emerges from his throat.

Mum waits. Timmy waits. Mum waits longer. She still won't lift him off.

Nothing bad is happening. The floor's not moving, and nothing hurts. His heartbeat slows, and his breathing deepens.

He doesn't bring his lower foot back to the beam on purpose, but when Mum leans him forward without warning, he finds it leaps back up anyway, regaining his balance. His breath has hitched again, but he still feels Mum's arms on both sides of him. 

He hears words leaking past the pounding in his ears, "...doing really well..." Is that Mum? "...I've got you..." Yes, it must be. "...just keep walking..."

He does, and then doesn't notice when the arm behind him falls away. He's walking the beam. Up. He's near the top now. Up. Mum is smiling and that tells him he's doing something right. Up.

He's reached the top of the beam. He is at a ladder, and the only way to go is down.

"Well done," says Mum. She says that a lot, but it sounds like she means it this time. She's smiling. "You did it. Now climb down the ladder."

It takes a bit of fumbling, and a bit of help, for Timmy to turn around so he's coming down backwards, but the ladder is much easier, and soon he's standing on the polished Sports Centre floor.

The gleaming wood is hard under Timmy's bare feet. He's happy.