It’s a Small Internet After All

So, today was "bring a buddy and break a board day" at the karate school. We brought The Kid's best friend Trip along. (Trip's parents are newly-divorced and the preparations were a mine field of being sure to get permission from both parents and then the coordinating of who would be where when, drop off by one parent and pick up by another, trying to be aware of everyone's feelings and be respectful of their situation was a little exhausting and made me appreciate the simplicity of our little family.)

Anyway, we were sitting in the karate school and I recognized a little girl - not a karate school regular. I was trying to figure out where I might know her from when it dawned on me. Why, that's Big Mama's daughter and there sitting across the room is Big Mama herself!

Now before you go clicking over there you should know, Big Mama and I do not have much in common. She is waaay younger than me and sort of famous for her fashion advice. I'm quite certain she's much more conservative politically. That being said, she's a SAHM with one child and that is a lot to have in common, church affiliations and political parties aside.

I knew she lived in this part of town. I instantly recognized her description of "the pool" not the Trinity pool where we swim, but the fancier neighborhood pool and I think we shop at the same grocery store. I read her blog, despite our obvious differences, because she is self-deprecating and laugh out loud funny sometimes. I enjoy reading San Antonio bloggers – it's geographic loyalty.

This is the first time I've run into someone I know exclusively from the blogosphere. It's weird, to sort of know someone in here but not know them at all out there in the real world. What's the etiquette? I don't comment on her blog, so she doesn't know me from the internet, but a fellow blogger (!), how could I NOT say hi?

I eventually went over and introduced myself, said, I read your blog, complimented her very cute child. She was gracious and did not seem at all alarmed at being approached by a stranger at the karate school.


Oh, and Trip broke his board on the first try and The Kid broke his with a solid and confident slide up side kick and then there was half an hour of getting shoes on and tied and then we took The Kid and Trip out to lunch. Oh, and there was ice cream. Not too bad for a Saturday.

Karate Class

I am having a lot of fun in my new karate class, but there are some real challenges involved.

I walk almost every day but that didn't do much to prepare me for the condensed bursts of aerobic exercise I'm dealing with in the class.

Punching and kicking are not in my usual bag of tricks in a day. In fact, I think I may have been taught explicitly to not punch and kick. Punching and kicking feels like breaking the rules. I'm using muscles that I have (perhaps) never used before. There's some soreness involved. And just for the record, it feels very counterintuitive to hit anything with your elbow!

The hardest part, by far, is feeling like a klutz. I used to be pretty light on my feet. I started college as a Theater major and following choreography was second nature. I was never a "dancer" but I could hoof along whenever it was required. Needless to say, it has been a long time since I have been asked to carefully coordinate the movement of my feet and hands, my arms and legs, left and right and I am as rusty as hell.

At times, in class, I feel very clumsy and uncoordinated. I let out little yips of distress when I find myself on the wrong foot or thrusting the wrong arm forward.

A few years ago I would have found this awkward, self-consciousness unbearable. I used to have a very low tolerance for feeling foolish.

At forty six, however, feeling a little clumsy doesn't matter enough to stop me from trying something new. There is something utterly liberating about being a beginner, being bad at something and to keep showing up anyway. I think this is one of the gifts of middle age.

Project Arse Week Five or "I'm a Stranger to Nirvana, I Don't Box Outside My Weight"*

You know it's going to be a good day when one of the first things you say to your family is this, "Can someone take a picture of my butt because it's butt day?"

Here's my rear end a la week five. To celebrate, I'm doing something very special - I'm taking my arse to a karate class. I've sat on the sidelines of the martial arts for years, first as Lefty's adoring fan and most recently as The Kid's. At some point this summer I decided it was time to get out on the mat myself. Or maybe I decided it was time to do something that scares the crap out of me because this sort of does.

Wish me luck.

*This is a quote from an ancient and arcane song and if anyone can name the artist and the song title, I'll give them a dollar.

Wax On…Wax Off

The Kid has been taking karate since he was five and he is very good at it. He's memorized combinations and kata. He has broken boards using his wee little hands and feet. He's been a bit of a star in the class - one of the youngest kids to advance to his current level. He can also be a little lazy in class sometimes and the new instructor (who, I swear to god, I am going to learn to like and not be so obsessive about even though I did lean over to Lefty this week and say – in all honesty – can you just kill him…please) has little patience for Max's focus on form or for his spinning flourishes when he's sparring. He just wants The Kid to kick as hard as he can every time he throws a kick and The Kid has just not gotten on the kick hard bandwagon. So, this week, for the first time in over two years of karate evaluations, The Kid did not pass his stripe test (thusly called because when you pass you get a stripe on your belt).

As a mother, there are few things worse than seeing your child bitterly disappointed. But, the new instructor who we'll call Mark, because I'm just tired of typing "new instructor", was absolutely right. I could see very clearly what they were asking The Kid to do and he just was not getting there. I feared The Kid, who is a tender-hearted little thing, would burst into tears. Then I worried that I might. His beloved instructor of times past, who we shall call Steve, because I'm tired of the typing of "the beloved instructor, came over and asked if The Kid could come back the next day to work on the kick and retest. I said sure. The Kid smiled and held his little self together until we got home and then he cried in the backseat for almost half an hour. (Did I mention he is also a teeny tiny bit dramatic?) I kept him company for a while, reminding him that he's a determined and stubborn little coot and that if he puts his mind to it, he can do anything. I told him that I have great faith in him. After awhile he told me to go away, so I did. This has been one of the hardest things for me to learn about parenting – that I cannot help some things with my mere presence and that when he says go away – he really means it.

I left the car door open and went into the house and got a beer and some knitting. I came back out and sat on the steps and kept an eye on him while pretending that I wasn't. Eventually, he got himself together and got out of the car. We made dinner and talked about the whole experience and the retest and all was well.

He was nervous about the retest and I was nervous for him. He went into class and worked as hard as I've ever seen him work for a full 45 minutes. He passed and proudly received his stripe. The class is going to continue to be challenging and he will have to work harder. I'm proud of the way he rose to the challenge and I'm a little proud of myself for not holding on, for letting him find his own way through, for going away when he told me to.

Dude!

Some great things have happened here in One of Threesville this week. There were a few low points, (the car going kablooey, the not-going-to-sleep, and the mid-life angst moment) but there were a few really awesome things and dude, I want to talk about them. (The Kid has entered "the dude stage" where everyone and everything is addressed as "dude" and dude, it is rubbing off on me.)

At the seven year check up (with the pee scare), our beloved pediatrician asked if Max was using a sinus rinse and I said, um, no. Lefty and I both use a sinus rinse. (Not the same one. Eeew. We have separate ones, please!) I had an antibiotic-resistant sinus infection a year ago which had me in it's grip for three full rounds of increasingly hideous antibiotics before it let me go. The ENT (that's ear nose and throat) guy told me to sinus rinse twice a day no matter what and I was so grateful to be finished with all those antibiotics that I promised him I would. I'm a good girl – I keep my promises. I have a squeeze bottle version. Neti pots are very hip and cool, but they required that you position your head just so to work and I have never been very good at just so. The squeeze bottle is like sinus rinse for dummies. Sinus rinsing is a little unpleasant. It's a lot like purposely getting pool water up your nose twice a day. The Kid, I thought, will never go for that. But he did. I ordered him a pediatric size squeeze bottle of his own and he's been rinsing all week. He looked up at me in between nostrils last night and said, "This is kind of gross, and unpleasant" but he is doing it and I'm really proud of him. Is this a weird thing to be proud of your kid for?

Here's the other great thing. As most of you know, I have been experiencing a bit of ambivalence about The Kid's karate class. ( ha ha ha ha) One of my beef's with the newish instructor (other than him being a self aggrandizing &#%*#@*) is the emphasis on point sparring in the class since he took over. The Kid (because he came up under the tutelage of the beloved other instructor) has never been taught to point spar. In fact, the only sparring The Kid ever did before this was no-contact sparring which is basically pretending to punch or kick your opponent. In point sparring, you make light contact. Needless to say, he's had a hard time getting the hang of it just by watching his classmates. But on Wednesday, after sitting rather glumly for a while, he volunteered to spar and actually made his first point! We were thrilled! He was thrilled, and so excited he came home and spilled a huge glass of water all over the table during dinner, because that's how we celebrate here at One of Three, with big spills and lots of paper towels!

Wherein I Mention Throwing Things More Often Than I Care To Admit

I've mentioned before the many, many ways that Karate Day kicks my ass. Today was no exception. As soon as The Kid got home from school and the clock started ticking, I could feel myself getting wound up. (Add to this the fact that I have started my period, which, in my perimenopausal state, is a bit of a miracle and a surprise, particularly considering my last three cycles were 66, 34 and 72 days long respectively. More on this, some other time.)

To make matters worse, the instructor I am the least fond of is back and teaching The Kid's class again. Plus, I had to sit on the floor because all the chairs were taken – and I'm 45, sitting on the floor for an hour makes my back hurt and my feet fall asleep. Poor Lefty walked into the karate school and saw the cinched up look on my face and looked as if he really wanted to turn around and run in the other direction. He is a brave man.

By the time the class was over, my dislike for this instructor plus my simmering hormonal soup had me feeling murderous AND tearful. Trying to get supper on the table, I couldn't decide whether I wanted to cry or throw things. I sat down and ate supper instead. I asked The Kid for extra hugs at bedtime, and he happily obliged. This helped but I am still feeling sort of twisted up and angry and crampy.

Being aware that what your feeling is being ratcheted up by your hormones doesn't make you feel any less like yelling or flinging the cast iron skillet out the window.

Karate Day

I don't really look forward to karate day. It means an abbreviated afternoon for The Kid, with homework to do before we go. Then there's the matter of the newish instructor that I despise and have to sit listening to his self aggrandizing chatter while the minutes of my son's not inexpensive class tick away and I have to plot how I might poke his eyes out with knitting needles or key his tacky VW convertible. This week, though, is different. The supremely annoying instructor is out of town and The Kid has his beloved original instructor.

This is the instructor our whole family loves, The Kid's Sifu. He was the reason we knew this was the right karate school for us. He appreciates The Kid's enthusiasm, occasional hot dogging, and karate sound effects. Lefty takes classes from him too. He makes me want to take karate lessons (and for those of you who might be new here, I'm not the karate type).

My main beef with karate day (the rant above not withstanding) is that I have to slam dinner on the table to get The Kid fed, through his night-time ritual and in bed on time. I realize that bedtime is not such a big deal in some other households, but The Kid needs a really good night's sleep or else he's a yawning, whiney basket case. It is in my own best interest for him to get his beauty rest.

When the bad instructor is teaching I am cranky about our accelerated Wednesday night, but because Sifu Steve taught his class today, I smiled and sailed through my slam-it-on-the-table-dinner. Lefty even agreed to take over my nighty-night duties so I could write this while The Kid's in the tub (because we just finished the awful battle in the Department of Mysteries in HP and the Order of the Phoenix and I cannot miss bedtime reading)!