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.
No Sew Zone
Filed under: Favorite Posts, Mental Strain for Mama
When I was in Junior High, I had Home Economics classes. We learned how to cook things, clean up after ourselves and also how to sew. I was not looking forward to the sewing part. But when it was my turn, I gave it everything I had. I started by making a football shaped pillow which turned out so fabulously well that I began grabbing scraps of material at home and sewing additional pillows. Pillow sewing rocked.
When sewing pillows got dull, I got super ambitious. We had a Valentine’s Day dance coming up and I decided that instead of making my Mom take me to the mall for a new outfit, I was going to make an outfit for myself. I graduated from high school in 1993, so you can probably do the math and figure out that when I was in junior high school, there were a whole lot of fashion no-no’s and nightmares.
Take M.C. Hammer pants for example, which is what I decided I absolutely must make for the dance. Mine would not be metallic. Instead, I opted for a nice peach color. The pants were pleated and baggy at the top and then tapered to their ankle choking end. I measured and cut and was convinced that these pants were going to be amazing.
Because a girl can’t wear just pants to a dance, I needed a shirt to match. So, what better to go with M.C. Hammer pants than a 3/4 length sleeved baseball style top. The sleeves were peach to match the pants and the front and back of the shirt was a complementary paisley pattern with peach and cream colors. It was going to be an amazing outfit to stand on the sidelines through the Guns and Roses slow songs that would be played.
In fact, it was going to be such an amazing outfit that I got extra material and decided to make a pair of purple pants and a purple paisley baseball shirt to go with them as well. On the day of the dance, I could decide which color to wear. You know what they always say right? If you find something you like, that flatters you, buy it in every color. Well, I was making my new wardrobe and it was going to be flawless.
Dances were such a treat. We had them every other month or so and every girl always got her hopes up, me included of course, that our "Prince Charming" would somehow find a way to detach his butt from his chair in the corner and get up to ask you to dance to something like "Every Rose has Its Thorn." Or, if they were really ambitious they might attempt "Girl you know it’s true" by Milli Vanilli in case they wanted to show off their running rabbit moves or something.
As the Valentine’s dance quickly approached, I worked tirelessly on my smashing outfit. I even went during study halls, and before and after school when it got to be crunch time. With my permed, spiked hair and peach (or purple) Hammer pants, I was going to be a star.
With two days left to go, I finished my outfit. I got an A on the outfit and my teacher was impressed that I made, not one, but two outfits. I couldn’t wait to try it on and see how incredible I was going to look so I took my new digs to the girls bathroom and gave them a whirl. They seemed to fit just fine but when I went out to the mirror I was very disappointed.
The pants were entirely too baggy in the butt and front. The bubbling pant effect was just not right. The shirt looked like it belonged to a girl three years younger and just hung there. It was not a dance worthy outfit. In fact, it was barely worthy of being called pajamas. I ripped it off, stuck it in my backpack and never wore it again.
When I got home, I begged my Mom to take me to the mall where the Deb shop delivered as usual. I went to the dance and spent the night staring across the floor at the group of boys wondering why they even bothered to come if they weren’t ever going to even get off their butts. And then I went home and never sewed again. . .
Until karate. Have you ever noticed those patches that seem to be on everyone’s gi’s? Big I’s gi is currently patch-less and mine is missing one of the ones I should have on there. Today, I attempted to sew the patches on the arms of our gi’s. After sewing less than an inch I had stabbed myself half a dozen times, and managed to tangle the thread to the point that the only option was ripping it out. Currently, Big I’s patch is hanging by a thread and I’m just hoping that I see my Mom before we have to go to karate because the only way I will succeed in getting these patches onto our gi’s is by using super glue.
Considering that super glue doesn’t even hold karate guys on trophies, I’m not very optimistic about it. Hey, at least my expectations have become more realistic since Junior High.
Important Lessons to Learn from American Idol
While watching the most horrific auditions I think I’ve ever seen on American Idol, it occurred to me that if these people have confidence, then there is absolutely no reason why I shouldn’t have a healthy dose of confidence myself. Take for example, the fact that I know I can’t sing. Sure, a rendition of a Pebbles song at karaoke can come out o.k. after a few beers or eight, and I’ve also had some success with Macy Gray, but would I ever do that for television? In front of three judges who are not at all afraid to tell you exactly what they think? Absolutely not. Number one lesson?
1. Confidence is knowing what you can do; and it’s also about knowing and accepting your limits. AND, there is definitely a difference between having confidence and having delusions of grandeur.
And then there’s the blonde "bombshell" Darwin, in the gold shirt with the bleached bob, who schooled the nation on the definition of "sexy." Somehow I’m thinking that she and Justin Timberlake are not on the same page here. Apparently a chest controlling apparatus such as a bra isn’t part of her deal either. And what can be learned from Darwin? Well, after giving birth to and nursing two children:
2. The apparent post-nursing shrinkage of my chest is a-o.k. with me (I’ll take what I’ve got over Darwin’s "issues" any day).
Another thing I’ve learned? Things look different once you have school-aged children. In past years, I’ve laughed it up big time. This year? It’s painful to watch some of these auditions but for another reason. . . I actually feel bad for these kids. Some of them are just so pathetic. "My Mommy isn’t here and she doesn’t support me. You’re my only hope. . . " or "I have a chronic illness that means I have to cough at the end of every other line, but PUH-LEASE give me a chance." O.k. that last one I made up, but you get the idea. Lesson #3 is that:
3. It is impossible to watch Idol once you have school-aged children, without feeling horribly sad for these pathetic kids.
And when they’re crying and swearing, it’s not nearly as bad as when the judges are making fun of them and they just go along with it at their own expense. That’s when I just feel like crying out loud for them. These kids are so desperate for their 15 minutes of fame that they’re willing to take it however they can get it. Man, I really hope that my kids never end up being in a situation like that which brings us to Lesson #4:
4. If my kids want to audition for something like this in the future and I know they will only humiliate themselves, I will let them down gently but firmly at home and spare them humiliation and probably years of therapy. In a few years, they’ll thank me for it.
Speaking of which, where are all these kids’ parents? Why aren’t they protecting them from this situation, this humiliation on national television? If I wasn’t relatively sure my girls would make it, they wouldn’t be there; and I sure as hell wouldn’t be standing there beside my girls wearing gawdy red lipstick singing along the words to "Don’t Cha" (Sorry, I just can’t get over Darwin and company). In the shower? A Pussycat Girls rendition? Sure, but on national television? Not a chance.
Here’s another lesson to be learned.
5. Unless you’re already a big time celebrity (think Angelina Jolie) and being interviewed by Barbara Walters, don’t spill your tears along with your life story.
Seriously, these shows are not going to empathize with you! They’re going to take every word you say and make you look like a complete fool, I mean, if you haven’t already done that yourself, which you probably have so, what was my point? Oh yeah, zip your lips and leave your costumes and any clothing resembling costumes at home.
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to go have a good cry for all of their poor tortured souls.
Contests-Schmontests
Everyone knows that those "Cutest Kid" contests are nothing more than a popularity contest. Here’s the scenario: a Mom submits a picture of her child and then spends the entire day hitting refresh and clicking through to vote, vote, vote, for her child as the cutest. If she’s feeling really ambitious, she’ll email all her friends and family members and beg for their votes as well. The contests are not about which child is the cutest. They’re about endurance, will-power, and dedication. How long can one Mom sit in the same location and vote, vote, vote???
Dedicated readers of Black Belt Mama. . . I beg of you. . . go here and click through with the "See More Kids button" until you see Lil C in the 0-2 category and Big I in the 3-5 category and VOTE, VOTE, VOTE. If you have an extra minute or six hours or so, I’d really appreciate it. You’re always telling me how cute these gals are anyway, right? And plus. . .
My fingers are soooo tired.
Edited to add: I went to the grocery store, came back, and my munchkins are in the top ten!?! You guys and gals ROCK! Keep it up!
Notes from a 5-year old
My husband was about to leave with Big I to run some errands. Big I asks, "Are we gonna return that shirt to "Old Lady"?" She was referring to Old Navy.
Big I: Mommy, do you know that baby pigs are called "piglips?"
Big I: "That is the funniest thing I never heard!"
But by far, the best thing I’ve heard her say in recent days. . .
"Mommy, I love karate."
And then, because I wasn’t basking in delight enough she said, "Can we practice karate sometime today?"
The smile on my face? I think it’s permanent.
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