It started as a Saturday like any other: the lingering under the covers, the procrastination that often comes when one has one's face buried in their device of choice. But soon the hands of the clock pushed us into action. Gymnastics class awaited.

We got dressed, fed, caffeinated (me, not her), and out the door like any other Saturday. We got into the car and drove to the low-density commercial-industrial-mixed zone that houses the kid's gymnastics club without incident. We even remembered her water bottle - my record for which runs a pretty solid .500 week to week.H

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Boots? Off. Hair? Clipped. Things were looking good. The kid's class was called and she bounced off to the gym while I settled into my waiting room chair. The familiar routine gave no indication of what was to come. 

I should step back a bit and set the scene. Her gymnastics club occupies one portion of what might otherwise be described as a warehouse. There's a small waiting area just inside the door and a large exercise facility taking up the majority of the space. It's large enough to run several classes at a time and during our Saturday time slot there are parent-tot classes for barely-walking toddlers, several-hour classes for more advanced tweens, and everything in between.

The first half hour unfolded as the first half hour usually does. The kid ran, stretched, flexed, bounced, and rolled. I sipped, read, tweeted, and daydreamed. It was right around the 30-minute mark, though, when the first signs of trouble emerged (though we didn't realize it at the time). 

A screeching toddler. A flustered parent. A few, brief moments of frantic (one-way) negotiation followed by the all-too-familiar scoop and sprint. Class was done for this pair. Knowing, sympathetic glances were exchanged among the parents in the lobby. We've all been there. 

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Fast forward a few minutes, though, and the scene changed considerably. A second screeching young one, this one slightly older. More hushed urgings to calm down followed by a second mobile wrestling match - the kid desperate to be set free to tantrum appropriately; the father desperate to JUST. GET. OUT. OF. THERE.

This time nobody dared raise their eyes. We all had our heads bowed in slient prayer instead. Dear eminent being of our choosing, please, in all your power and wisdom, please don't let my kid be next.

For see, there are two related truths that every parent instinctively knows to be valid:

The first is that some days are just crazy days. Maybe it's the phase of the moon. Maybe it's the depth of the tides. Maybe a distant planet aligns with a more distant star or maybe the controlling being just decides to shake the proverbial ant farm and cause chaos. No matter what the cause, some days are just crazy days and no child is immune. "Is anyone else's kid acting loopy today?" trends on Twitter and parents hunker down in survival mode, willing the day to end.

The second? Three is a magic number. Bad things happen in threes. Three makes a tend. Whatever jaunty little expression you use to describe it, three is the most dangerous number.

One kid loses her shit at gymnastics? Meh, it happens.

Two kids lose their shit at gymnastics? Nervous laughter and shrugging shoulders. 

Three kids lose their shit? Batten down the hatches, folks. Today's one of Those Days (TM).

So when that second kid was dragged out in hysterics, every parent shared the same terrified thought: Don't let it be me next.

Every minor incident suddenly took on greater significance. Two kids clash over the direction in which they should cartwheel on the rainbow mat? All breathing stops.

The clock ticks seem to slow to a crawl.

9:40.

9:41.

A kid does a face plant on the tumble track? Muscles involuntarily clench. The lobby is eerily quiet. Even the springs on the trampoline seem tighter. 

9:42.

Wait, was that really only a minute? It felt like an hour. 

9:43.

Then we see it. The youngest class - the parent-tot group that started it all - breaks off and the kids line up for their stickers. Then the next group follows suit. With every kid that comes running out of the gym you can feel the tension breaking ever so slightly. There's still the putting-on-of-the-boots to get through but we're so agonizingly close.

My kid comes out, smiling, joyfully oblivious to the tension. Coats are put on. Mittens are found. Suddenly, almost in a haze, we get to the back, get our boots and get out the door. We're in the car now and I barely know how we got there. I look back and see her smiling. 

"Good class today kid?"

"Good class, Daddy!"

She has no idea how true those words are. I turn the key and gun it out of the parking lot.

Crisis averted. Barely.

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