April 19, 2006

Teach your children well

I was on vacation last year when the whole Natalee Holloway story broke. I was glued to the TV first thing in the morning and each night hoping they would find her alive, praying that even if she wasn’t alive anymore they would find her so her parents could have some peace. Almost a year later, I’m still waiting like everyone else and hoping that the recent developments bring about some closure.

Stories like Natalee’s haunt and terrify me. Having two daughters makes it even worse. In one respect I can see myself in Natalee’s shoes. One stupid night of a bit too much alcohol, paired with a bad decision or two and your life as you have known it, is forever altered or over. What average young woman these days hasn’t been in the situation of going a bit overboard? For most young women, the overboard night ends with nothing more than a headache. Natalee wasn’t so lucky.

In another respect, I can put myself in her mother’s shoes (and I think this is what bothers me the most.) How horrible it must be to lose your daughter, and how much worse is it to not even know why or how? I think the most awful part about it is that Natalee went missing so far from home. How could her parents possibly keep up the endless string of nights in a foreign land, in a foreign hotel? But then again, how could they go home? Can you imagine what that must have felt like, leaving without their daughter?

I know my girls are young, but stories like this are a big part of the reason why all female family members living under my roof will take karate. I want to raise my girls to be strong physically and mentally. Karate is perfect for that. I want them to have confidence in themselves to the point that they tend to avoid potentially dangerous situations. I want them to ooze confidence so that any ill-intentioned persons don’t even give them a glance. I want them to know that if they get in a dangerous situation, they can get out and how to go about doing so. The problem is that you can know all the karate in the world, but if you are incapacitated due to alcohol, what are the chances you’ll be able to use it? This is a huge problem and I wonder when I’ll need to start talking to my girls about alcohol and whether or not they’ll listen. Right now, my 5 year old won’t even drink soda. I think I have some time; but considering how these past 5 years flew, it will be here before I know it.

I think one of the most important things for young girls is to have a good group of friends. When I was in college, shortly after I turned 21, I was out at a club with a group of friends. I had two drinks the entire night, certainly not enough to put me under the table; but all of a sudden I started feeling very strange. The next thing I remember is looking up at a group of faces I didn’t know. Thank God my friend came back quickly from the bathroom, and my boyfriend (now husband) noticed from across the room where he was getting a drink. They helped me to my feet and literally had to carry me out of the bar and home. It wasn’t your normal drunk; and having had only two drinks, I knew and they knew I had to have been drugged. I felt funny for a few days following that awful night and thank my lucky stars that I had two great people to help me home. Assessing the situation the next day with my friends, we remembered how I was watching a band and had my drink sitting behind me at a table. There were some shady guys on the other side of the table who followed us to the next bar later in the evening. It was a bad idea, putting my drink down; and I haven’t let a drink out of my sight since then.

Situations like this though, go to show that no matter how careful you are, one stupid mistake could end up meaning a world of trouble. Unfortunately, I think that’s what happened with Natalee. No one her age ever thinks anything bad will ever happen to them. Young girls tend to trust people easily and it’s very scary for a mother of two young girls.

Besides locking my girls in our house until they’re 30 or so, I really don’t know what else I can do besides giving them the tools they need and hoping and praying for the best. I also found this site which includes a questionnaire you can use to talk with your children. My 5-year old and I have been through it a couple times already, and we’ll go through it many more times for sure.

I guess all I can hope for is that I help to put a good head on their little shoulders. I guess that’s all any parent can hope for. But as a back up, I think I’ll display my karate weapons prominently on my walls when dating age is getting near, and possibly require a lengthy pre-date "interview" with any potential suitor. That should help spread the word that my girls (and their wicked karate mama) are not to be messed with.

Posted by Black Belt Mama on April 19, 2006 in Mental Strain for Mama | 7 Comments

April 17, 2006

You gotta do pilates

My parents have always been exercise fanatics. When I was in high school, my parents would often decide to do aerobics together and take up the family room TV with Jane Fonda tapes. Sometimes my little sister would join in. I thought it was ridiculous and would usually go upstairs and talk on the phone. Sometimes, for fun, I’d grab the bag of lard fried potato chips and a Pepsi and sit down and watch. It was quite entertaining.

Recently, my husband has been on a fitness kick. I thought it was a passing phase, but he has stuck with it for months now and lemme tell you, he’s looking good. I’ve had a bit of a motivation problem when it comes to exercise. I figure that carrying around a 17.5 lb. baby is good enough. Granted, I play tennis once a week and go to karate, but I could do more. I used to like doing pilates and I have a nice little work out DVD that only takes a half hour, ten minutes if you break up the parts and only decide to do abs.

So, I told my husband I would start doing pilates again, but he had to go along for the ride. Whenever we do workout things together, two things inevitably happen. One, is that we, o.k. I, end up yelling obscenities at the TV screen. Work out tape women are WAY too happy. They enjoy pain a bit too much for my liking. I mean, seriously, WHO SMILES when doing pilates? Who smiles when they feel like their gut is being ripped into shreds? Not anyone normal, that’s for sure.

The second thing that ends up happening, is that my husband and I end up so hysterical that we can barely continue. My pilates DVD features a woman named "Betsy." Betsy is put there for the weak. Betsy does everything the rest of the gals do, but she is what my husband and I refer to as "the lazy one." Betsy doesn’t hold her legs up in the air when doing her crunches. She sets her feet firmly on the floor. Betsy takes breaks when she needs to. Betsy. . . is my idol.

I never had a problem following the main girl before, but only being six months out from giving birth, the abs are just not there like they used to be. Tonight, Betsy and I were good buds. My husband and I ended up spending the 10 minute ab work out talking to Betsy. I have to admit, we weren’t being very nice.

I’d love to be one of those women who enjoys exercise. Sure, I know that it would incite violence towards me from other women; but still it would be sort of cool. Exercise is not something I enjoy, unless I’m in a team sports setting and then I’m all for it. I need something to distract me from the pain. I think part of my problem is that (and I know I’m risking absolute hatred here) I’ve never really needed to exercise. I always had a high metabolism and didn’t really put on weight until I went to college and discovered pizza 24/7 and beer. After I had my babies, the extra weight was gone within a month. I’m lucky in that way. I know I am and I don’t take it for granted. But, I’m not exactly toned either.

I want to get in better shape. I think that it will help my karate tremendously, tennis too. I just don’t know exactly what to do to get in better shape. I despise going to the gym, and working out at home just doesn’t seem to happen. Right now, I am hoping that my husband just sort of forces me to do the pilates every night. Tonight, I was finished after the abs portion. My husband continued with the butt section. I. . . ate some Tostito’s and had a diet rite. Old habits die hard.

Posted by Black Belt Mama on April 17, 2006 in Work it out | 5 Comments

April 17, 2006

Easter Recap

It started off like this in the morning when the baskets were first discovered. My husband will not like this one bit, but oh well. . .

We then went to church where Lil C let EVERYONE know she can say "da da" and "ma ma" at the top of her little lungs.

And then we went to Mom-Mom’s house, where Big I had a great time on her solo mission egg hunt. Even Lil C got in on the fun, "finding" one egg and batting it down from it’s hiding location on the window sill. My husband got this great action shot of the hunt. . .

. . . and this picture of me and my girls since The Picture People failed to capture the pure adorableness of their outfits. Unfortunately, Big I’s bag is in the way of her skirt that matches Lil C’s outfit. (It’s always something!)

But, just when you start to think you have a fairly normal family, you have a holiday get together with the whole crew. Any illusion (or delusion) that you had of having a normal family is completely blown to hell. Let’s start with my sister’s boyfriend. . .

Let me preface this by saying that I like her boyfriend. I am, in fact, inadvertently responsible for them being together. (I told a friend my sister needed a boyfriend; she had a friend; we had them exchange email addresses; the rest is history.) He is a hard worker; he’s responsible; and I think that he loves my sister which is fine by me. (Let me just say here that he better love my sister or else I’m going to have to go all karate on his ass.) When forced to be around anyone for any length of time though, you start to discover the little oddities about them.

These oddities first were revealed on vacation last year. We spent a week at the beach with him and it was, well, interesting to say the least. My sister’s boyfriend is somewhat of a food snob as in: Orange juice from concentrate??? The nerve! This isn’t the only odd thing though. I wouldn’t even feel compelled to bring it up if it wasn’t for the fact that he called my daughter a "freak" because she didn’t eat the crust on her toast. But since he did, game on. The boy does not like: any kind of pasta, any kind of cheese, cake (yeah, seriously), ice cream (unless it’s from a dairy in Michigan), any type of tomato based sauce, anything that mixes two foods together, anything with cornbread or yeast in it, salad, fruit, and the most shocking of all. . . chocolate. Now, tack on the fact that he does not ever have an alcoholic beverage and you’ve got a teasing fest in the making.

Yesterday our menu included: salmon cakes, ham, scalloped potatoes, corn bake, salad, rolls, Easter cake, and red beet eggs. He ate. . . ham, lots and lots of ham. No seriously, like half of the ham. This is what he does. At Big I’s birthday party, we had pizza and cake and ice cream. We special ordered him a plain hamburger. On Christmas, we had seafood lasagna, and because my Mom felt bad knowing that would be a huge taboo for him (sauce, cheese, pasta. . . the horror!) she made hot roast beef for sandwiches. He ate five of them, in a row and nothing else.

Yesterday as I was serving the Easter cake (yellow cake, pudding and cream cheese mixture, pineapple, cool whip) I asked him if he wanted a piece. He said he didn’t like cake, so I cut him a small piece and told him to eat up. The man is in his 30’s for God’s sake. He can amuse the chef and eat a small piece without acting like a 4-year old. So, he started to eat it and wasn’t falling over from the sheer disgustingness of it, so I said to him, "You like that cake? You know what’s in that cake??? Noodles and cheese." I thought my husband was going to die laughing. The boyfriend chose to ignore me and needed a drink. "Is that tea out there diet?" he asked. "Yes, it is," I responded, "so that eliminates that as a choice. What do you want? A nice glass of meat juice?" I don’t think he found me very amusing, but how can you not find his eating habits amusing? His diet consists of meat, and white bread. Period.

While we were trying to coax him into eating, my grandparents were arguing about juice. This is what they do. My grandmother is 88 years old; my grandfather is 81. They are an absolute riot. My grandmother LOVES to talk. She can talk about just about anything and just in case you missed something, don’t worry, because she will tell you again from the start in exquisite detail. My grandfather is much more quiet. He doesn’t say much, but sometimes like a volcano under pressure, he erupts. It’s like he can only take so much of my grammom’s talking before he’s had enough. Whatever she happens to be talking about at the time will be the subject of the eruption. Yesterday, the subject of wrath was none other than juice. It went something like this:

Grammom: "I have cranberry juice at home. I used to have the stuff that was from concentrate. Now I have juice that is 100% juice. They don’t put sweeteners in it or anything. It’s 100% juice. It’s cranberry with raspberry in it."

Pop-pop: Nods, but starts to look a little irritable.

Grammom: "I like that juice. We don’t buy the stuff from concentrate. It’s really good. And, it’s 100% juice.

Pop-pop:(shakes head and talks through his teeth) "It does have other stuff in it. It’s got raspberry juice in it."

Grammom: (exasperated) "But it’s 100% juice, Herb." (says "Herb" as if it’s a dirty word.)

Pop-Pop: "I’m just saying it’s not 100% cranberry juice, because it DOES have other stuff IN IT."

Grammom: "I know HERB! It’s got raspberry juice in it. But it’s 100% juice!"

Pop-Pop: (mutters under breath and gives up).

A few minutes later, orange juice comes up.

Grammom: "I like my orange juice to have that stuff in it."

Pop-Pop: "It’s called PULP HELEN! PULP!"

Grammom: "I know what it’s called Herb!"

Pop-pop: (as if someone just said something negative about where he buys the juice) "We buy our juice at Weis markets. We buy Weis brand. It’s the best. It’s got lots of pulp in it. You don’t have to buy fancy orange juice."

My grandparents are funny in that they have strong opinions, but on just about everything. Politics, check. Orange juice, oh you better believe it. During Big I’s solo egg hunt, my grandmother was telling us how you just never know what’s going to happen these days, and because of that she stores jugs of water in her basement. She uses old milk containers, wine bottles, whatever she can come up with. My grandfather patiently waited for her to relay her story and then said, "Yeah, she’s got so many jugs of water in the basement that if I trip and fall down there, I’m liable to drown." She’s the storyteller; he’s the one-liner. It always makes holidays interesting to say the least.

Now, go make yourselves some meat sandwiches (no condiments allowed), drink some 100% juice, and say a little prayer that if my sister does get married to this guy, the wedding reception doesn’t have a ground beef cake.

Posted by Black Belt Mama on April 17, 2006 in Holiday Fun | 3 Comments

April 16, 2006

Egg Hunt Etiquette

My memories of Easter egg hunts are pretty tame. The most common place for an egg hunt for me was at my grandmother’s big back yard. The competition was my little sister, so it goes without saying that I was always a pretty happy camper post egg hunt.

I also have some memories of an egg hunt that my parents used to take us to at a local park. I honestly don’t know why they even call them egg hunts because really, who has to hunt for them when they’re right out in front of you? They really should call them "egg free-for-alls" because isn’t that what they usually end up being anyway? You show me an egg hunt, and I’ll show you at least a hand full of kids who leave with hurt feelings and some pent up frustration. The egg hunt etiquette that I followed at the local park egg hunt went something like this:

When someone starts the knee bend descent towards an egg, that egg is off limits. Once someone has "engaged" the egg in this manner, it’s time to move along.
If I am in the knee bend descent and another person should swoop in and try to take the egg that I have engaged, all bets are off, as in, do what needs to be done. You may: tell on kid, yell at kid, kick kid, etc.
If all else fails when dealing with a knee bend descent swipe attempt, quickly stomp on egg so that it really is pointless for anyone involved. Follow the "if I can’t have this egg, no one can have this egg" mentality as a last resort.
If someone does successfully swipe an egg once I have engaged the egg, then I am free to hate that person for all of eternity, and/or possibly "accidentally" tip their basket while they’re in the process of swiping someone else’s egg.

I believe it is a parent’s responsibility to teach their children these unwritten rules of childhood. I certainly don’t want or condone either of my children being bullies. However, I want them to know that it’s o.k. to stand up for themselves too. Which brings me to today’s events. . . Big I has never been to a regular egg hunt. Her experience is much like most of mine were. The egg hunt takes place at Mom-Mom’s house and she has had no competition and probably won’t from Lil C until at least next year. This year, I decided that it would be fun to go to a different egg hunt to let her be around other kids. After all, children must be indoctrinated into the egg hunt free-for-all at some point.

I wanted to give Big I some "tips" before the actual hunt, but she spent the two previous nights at Mom-Mom’s house, so I didn’t have the time to really pass on my knowledge. Seeing as the egg hunt actually took place at a church, I was unsure if my egg rules would really be appropriate. O.k. I know they’re not appropriate, but even kids at church can get competitive, right?

So, the egg hunt started with an Easter party that involved story time and crafts. The kids traced their hands and then pasted cotton balls onto the hand print to make it look like a little lamb. I’m not a particularly crafty person so I was pretty lost. I think Big I was too, judging from the way her lamb turned out. I mean, it’s cute and all, but it looks more like a hand with cotton balls on it than anything else.

Then, there was the little boy sitting across the table from her who kept "smelling something" (that I’m sure he dealt himself), and accusing someone in the vicinity of letting loose with their nether-regions. My husband and I recently taught Big I another unwritten rule of childhood, to use the phrase, "he who smelt it dealt it," but instead she just glared and kept on gluing. I’m telling you, teaching your children the childhood rules are just not easy these days, and getting them to follow through with them is even harder!

So, finally it was time for the egg hunt. The kids were grouped according to age and Big I was one of the youngest in the group, having just turned 5. We made our way to the starting line and the eggs were all lying out in the grass for everyone to see. There were eggs and candy and I thought for sure that Big I would feel like she hit the lottery and come back with only candy. The kids started and everyone else started running, doing the practically walking on all fours thing, to get to the eggs and candy faster. Then there was Big I.

Big I tentatively walked into the field and contemplated each egg. She would notice one, take some time to observe it, maybe bend a bit towards it, and then slowly pick it up and put it in her basket, if the mood moved her. Then she would walk a few steps, ever so slowly, and start the observation/contemplation process all over again. I couldn’t help but say to my Mom, who was along for the fun, "What is she doing?" My competitive nature made me yell out, "Come on! Pick up the eggs!" Still her process continued at the same pace.

When everything was finally picked up, Big I made her way back to me and had five eggs in her basket, which was WAY more than I thought she’d have considering how she practically gave each one a job interview before picking it up. In her basket there was not a piece of candy to be found. I couldn’t help but wonder if she had it in her head that since I had been talking about taking her to an egg hunt, perhaps she thought eggs were the only thing she was allowed to pick up. "Maybe since we’re at a church egg hunt, she thinks the candy was put there by the devil to tempt her," I said to my Mom. One little girl standing nearby heard us remark that Big I was without a single piece of candy. She offered some of hers to Big I. I mean, obviously this was not your average egg hunt; and it’s probably good that my rules were kept to myself.

Before heading back in, I asked Big I to give me one last smile with her basket of eggs (o.k. actually a first smile because there were no smiles during the course of this hunt.)

Man, she was thrilled. Can’t you tell?

Inside, when she realized we were leaving she finally gave up the pearly whites. Apparently, competitive natures are not passed down in the genes; and I need to seriously start making some peace with that NOW.

Posted by Black Belt Mama on April 16, 2006 in Growing Pains | 4 Comments

April 12, 2006

Weirdness

I have become accustomed to about 60 visitors a day to my site. So, you can understand why I seriously almost sent my iced tea flying out my nose when I checked my visitor stats and saw 535 visitors this afternoon since midnight. What the? Amalah.com Amalah.com Amalah.com-referring website? Huh? I mean, I know I tagged Amalah last night, but I never expected that Amalah would be such a good sport. Even if she decided to complete the tagging task, I NEVER in a million years thought that I would get not one, but TWO links from her post back to my site. As it stands this evening, I have had 1050 visitors today. OH. MY. GOD.

I remember when I first discovered Dooce, and I read on her bio page about how "dooced" had become a word with multiple meanings. One of the definitions was to be "dooced," as in she mentions you or includes a link to your site and you experience a HUGE, mind-blowing influx of traffic. Well, I am here to say that I have officially been "amalahed." All you blog traffic sites ain’t got nothin’ over being amalahed. I hope that some of the Amalah traffic will like what they read enough to come back again sometime. And now, back to our regularly scheduled program. . .

Tonight at karate I found out something weird about myself. If you have any experience in the martial arts, you know how to make a knife hand and can skip to the next paragraph. If you don’t, a knife hand is a strike in karate, like a punch. Instead though, your hand remains straight, not balled up in a fist. All fingers stay smack against each other. It slices through the air like a knife, thus the name "knife hand." When you make this knife hand, your thumb is supposed to be slightly bent in, towards your open palm.

Since I became a 5th kyu green belt a few weeks ago, my instructor has been watching me like a hawk it seems. Now seems to be the time to go back and reexamine everything, even the simple stuff. Is my punch aimed at the right spot? Are the knuckles facing the right direction? Are the blocks ending at the right place? etc. etc. etc. Tonight, my instructor came over while we were reviewing the 10 step blocking drill and started staring intently at my knife hands. Something was obviously very wrong.

"Bend your thumb in when you do knife hands," my instructor said. And then a strange thing happened. I bent my thumb the way I was supposed to. . .and my pointer finger came along for the ride. Not all of it, but the portion from the top knuckle to the end of my finger. I tried again. The same thing happened. My instructor stared more intently. "Can you keep your other finger straight?" Apparently, I can not. Everyone else can do it: my classmates, my husband, my daughter, even my Mom because I called her to trick her into showing that she has a pulley thumb too so I could blame genetics once again. . . the woman, her hands work properly. What is up with that?

I can see myself now, having to explain to the panel of black belts at testing a few years from now, why my knife hands just don’t look like everyone else’s and how they should just pass me anyway. I’m unique; who cares that my thumb and forefinger are apparently very in touch with each other? That one can’t move without the other. It’s weird. I wish I had known this last night for the whole weird post.

Speaking of explaining things, would someone please tell me how to explain daylight savings to a 5-year old? Whenever we go anywhere in the evening, we have this conversation:

Big I: Mommy, is it morning (pronounced "more nang") or night?

Me: It’s night.

Big I: Well (said with ‘tude), it looks like morning.

Me: Well, it’s not. It’s evening or night, whatever you want to call it.

Big I: But it looks like morning.

Me: Listen, Big I, there are three parts to the day: morning, afternoon, and evening. Right now is what we call ‘early evening.’ It’s closer to bedtime than it is to breakfast.

Big I: But it’s light outside.

Me: I know, but that’s because of the time change. We change the clocks and then it looks like it’s still day time but it’s really night.

Big I: I don’t get it.

Several minutes pass. . .

Big I: Is it morning or is it night?

Me (defeated): Night.

Big I: Do I have to get in jammies when we get home?

Me: Yes, please.

Big I: But it looks like morning.

And it continues. . . sort of like shampoo instructions, "lather, rinse, repeat" except in this scenario, it’s just repeat, repeat, repeat, repeat, until the last strand of sanity is completely washed down the figurative drain. I seriously start to get annoyed and then just start cracking up laughing, (which annoys and confuses her worse).

Occasionally, she gives me this line after this endless loop of a conversation:

Big I: Never mind, I will just ask my daddy when I get home. . . he’s really smart.

This is what she pulled on me the other night when she asked how dinosaurs had babies. When I told her they hatched out of eggs, she cracked up laughing, said, "no, no, no" and then the whole "I’ll ask daddy thing," which really burns me up. I mean, I know I married a valedictorian and all, but it’s not like I’m the missing link or anything. . . but come to think of it. . . has anyone seen a monkey’s hands?