January 21, 2007

Dear Children. . .

Dear Big I, Lil C, and other dojo children,

I don’t know why you hate us so. We have spent a total of 29.5 months nurturing you and providing you with sustenance. We may be beaten down and a shadow of our former selves, but we’re still here. We’re still worthy of respect and kindness.

Lately, it seems that all you children want to do is hit, kick, punch and torment us and it just isn’t right. We have "feelings" too. In the future, we would appreciate it if you could aim your valiant efforts in the direction of our neighbor to the south. Stomach can handle its fair share of beatings. Right and left arm aren’t bad either at taking a beating, and even shin is willing to help from time to time.

So, I beg of you. . . I am pleading with you, won’t you please just leave us alone!?!

Sincerely,

BBM’s "Girls"

In case you were having any trouble figuring it out, class last week was sparring drills. I was paired up with Big I for some of them and a black belt teen stepped in when it was my turn to hit and kick. I knelt down so that I could be at Big I’s height and she took every opportunity during our inside or outside block and punch drill, to nail me in the mammaries. For a woman who has weaned a child just two weeks ago? There is some pain to be talked about.

What is it with kids and a woman’s chest??? Why must they make contact in such destructive ways? Months ago when I was sparring with a young black belt candidate, he nailed me in the chest with a roundhouse kick that was absolute agony. I was nursing then and it was enough to make me want to cry.

Now Big I seems dead set on making wicked contact and I am seriously considering buying a chest protector. Considering the shape (and by "shape" I mean size) of the current situation, buying a chest protector would be laughable.

And while we’re on this topic, what’s up with nature anyway? You spend months nursing your child, doing what you believe is right and what’s the reward?

Balloon.

Pin.

Popped.

Yeah, that about sums it up. I’m not saying I wouldn’t do it all over again, and I’m certainly not saying I have any regrets. I don’t. All I’m saying is that there should be some kind of reward.

Something. . .

Anything. . .

. . . other than a sad little (in more ways than one) trip to Victoria’s Secret.