Thursday, March 20, 2014

Wax on, wax off. Breathe in, breathe out.

It was either the best or worst idea.
To sign him up for karate.
Force him to watch The Karate Kid.
Tell him he looked a little like Ralph Macchio.
To channel Mr. Miyagi and demonstrate how to "wax on, wax off."

He just looked so damn cute in that white uniform, belt tight around his waist.
Within seconds, he went from wild child to the picture of self-discipline.
A poster child for body/mind/spirit/inner energy fitness.

He got to run, kick, punch, yell - all for a good cause and all sanctioned by adults.

It was an entire life transformation for him, so I thought.
They were indoctrinating him. Molding him.

Take off your shoes. 

Salute the flags when you enter or exit the mat. 

Count in Korean.

HANA (1)
DHUL (2)

Take home this job list. Complete it and return it each week. "Make my own bed." "Put my things away." Bonus stripes on your belt for completing these tasks.

The masters were hard core, if not paunchy, middle aged men, who wore black belts, and cared little for small children. It all seemed so perfect.

Day 1, the group applauded my 5 year old son for a great first day of karate. He even followed along with the meditation. He was a natural, the master said. At MEDITATING! (I've often thought he was a natural at negotiating, instigating, escalating, and exasperating, but meditating! I believed for that split second that I had birthed a veritable Buddha).

Yes, this karate class was surely changing our lives one "Hiya!" at a time.

But, then my karate kid started punching things at home. First, pillows. Second, Pop pop. He debuted his ninja moves at a shiva, nearly knocking down 80 year old bereaved women and their walkers.

And, this bad Buddha behavior didn't just take place outside of the karate studio.

Two or three classes in, my karate kid started barking, "Yes, Sir!" (instead of "Ma'am) to the teenage (black belt) girl, assisting the class. His eyes sparkled at me through the floor to ceiling mirror as I watched, holding my breath. "YES, SIR!" he continued. All the other little white and yellow belts snickered, responding, "Yes, ma'am!"

When class was over, he decided to spar with one of the masters. He ran over and flicked the black belt. The 50 year old master brushed off my karate kid's taunts and roundhouse kicks off as if he was brushing off a green fly. His glared over at me, as if to say, "Is your kid REALLY trying to kick my ass?"

I just shrugged. He truly was.

I grabbed my karate kid's belt and dragged him towards the exit.

"You CANNOT fight the black belts!" I warned him on the drive home. "That's like rule #1 in karate!"

"I was just practicing my roundhouse kick!"he responded.

"It's not funny. They are going to throw you out of class!"

"THROW me out?! Oh yeah! I'll just punch . . . "

"I don't mean physically throw you out. They are going to say, 'that kid, he can't come back to class.'"

"Well, they said that I was good at meditating the first day. Remember that?"

I counted to three in Korean and tried meditating myself as we drove home.




Breathe in, breathe out.

Okay, so here were are. Maybe 8 classes in.

He runs and plays tag with the other kids for the first two minutes of class. Then he pulls up a seat and decides he's going to "watch the other kids do karate."

"Ummmmm. No. You either go back over there with the group and do it - or we are going home - and never coming back."

"I'm hot. I'm taking this jacket off." He starts ripping the sparkly white karate uniform jacket off as if it's all of a sudden a straight jacket. All bets that he's the next Buddha are now off.

He's wearing a bright yellow t-shirt and that wild child is right back where he started. He's planted, arms crossed, on a chair.

"You get out there or we are going home."

At this point, his 2 year old brother, Sweet Pea, decides to go sit next to him and talk some reason into him. I hope. But what happens next is that they whisper to one another, giggle, and then race onto the karate floor mat, running circles in opposite directions, nearly over, around, and through the class being led by the most sour master of them all.


"Don't worry, he's leaving!" I yell back.

I throw off my sneakers and salute the Korean flag. (It's the only way onto the mat).

"I'm going to count to three!" I yell. ONE - TWO - THREE!"

The circus continues as sweat drips down my back. I chase after my kids (and, truthfully, I'm not really supposed to be running because I had surgery a few weeks ago).

I'm debating counting to three in Korean just to give the karate kid one more chance, but I can't remember the numbers. I grab Sweet Pea first and rip his shoes off. I salute the flags again on his behalf. I toss him to a spectator/friend because he only weighs 26 pounds and he can still be tossed.

"You are DONE!" I yell at the karate kid.

The other moms stop texting and glance up from their phones to see what Master Mommy is going to do next. I go all ninja and grab him by the arm. I hoist him onto my shoulder - (and, truthfully, I should not be hoisting anyone or anything heavier than 30 pounds, but hopefully my doctor is not reading this). I give the flags a final salute or perhaps an F-U and I fireman carry the karate kid straight out the door, barefoot, kicking and screaming. I lock the car doors.

I breathe in, breathe out. I go back into the karate studio and sweep up Sweet Pea.

"I. do. kayate, mommy!" he says proudly. I kiss his pompadour.

We drive home.
He's in his room for the night.
His karate uniform is in the Halloween costume bin.

Wax on, wax off.
Breathe in, breathe out.