My First Tae Kwon Do Tournament

I never thought I would get such pleasure out of watching two grown men kick the living stuffing out of each other. Okay, perhaps I should clarify that statement, lest you think I've suddenly become interested in cage fighting.

My sons have been students at Hanover's Xcel Taekwondo for a few years now. My younger son became interested when he attended "buddy day" at the school, or dojang, with a friend. The owner "Mrs. T" (Kyria Gallagher Takahashi, a nice Irish girl) had an impressive list of medals, awards and accolades, but what impressed me most was the way she handled her class of Little Dragons (kids 6 and under). Trying to corral a group of pre-schoolers is like serving soup with a slotted spoon: it can get very messy. Yet at each class Mrs. T had her students in organized lines, eyes focused on her, following instructions. She’s like a friendly, lovable drill sergeant. My son quickly learned to answer with a loud "Yes Ma'am." My son also learned from "Mr. T" (no gold chains or Mohawk here...and yet I pity the fool who messes with Fabio Takahashi). In addition to learning blocks and kicks, each month the class would focus on words such as self-control, respect and discipline. I quickly realized my son was learning more than just roundhouse kicks and how to count to ten in Korean.

Several months later, my older son, who was adamantly against learning martial arts, decided to give it a try. Too old for the Little Dragons, he joined the class for ages 7 and up. It was immediately apparent that his class was different. He learned a variety of kicks, blocks, self-defense moves and "forms", a series of choreographed moves that made me realize just how ridiculous that old "wax on, wax off" scene in "The Karate Kid” really was. But what threw me was when he would don protective gear to spar with the other students. He looked a bit like the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man, but without the nasty attitude.

Up to this point my exposure to martial arts had been watching old episodes of "Kung Fu Theater" with my father (and if you've never seen a man with a genius IQ giggle over those badly dubbed films, you're missing out). My husband studied Karate before we met and while we were dating made the ill-fated suggestion that we try Ninjitsu. After realizing I was too creaky to do a forward roll, I gave up Ninjitsu and returned to step aerobics (I may not be stealthy but I can sure keep a beat.) In Taekwondo, sparring is all about the kicks.

Watching my sons spar is both a thrilling and terrifying experience. At the end of the hour they are completely sweaty, so it’s a great workout. However, watching them get nailed in the chest by other students can be a little unnerving. Still, their balance has improved, their confidence has increased and their participation in class and on the school's demonstration team have helped them forge new friendships.

This past weekend, the school sponsored a tournament at the South Shore Vo-Tech. Several of Xcel’s students have participated in tournaments around the country, bringing home gold, silver and bronze medals. When my younger son, now old enough to spar, asked to participate, I agreed.

When we arrived I was floored by the number of competitors, which included a busload of students from Quebec. The Vo-Tech gymnasium had been transformed into a real tournament arena with four separate “rings" allowing for simultaneous competition. The excitement from the competitors and the parents was infectious. I had to remind myself to stay with my son whenever a part of me wanted to wander off and watch something else. Nervously I watched my son do his forms (which yielded a bronze medal) and spar with a member of the French Canadian team (silver medal this time) And while many students left once their event was over, I insisted we stick around to watch some of the adult black belts spar.

Watching my sons spar in class was nothing like watching these guys go at it. Yes they wear pads, and yes there is a referee, but other than that it was like someone had spliced together scenes from "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon", "Gladiator" and "Breakin 2: Electric Boogaloo" (okay, I didn't see that last one...) Some competitors were aggressive and impulsive while others were introspective and strategic. In addition to a flurry of well-placed (and sometimes missed) kicks there were moves designed to fake out the opponent or throw him off balance. There were kicks to the head (the head!) Watching these black belts spar was like watching poetry; granted it was sweaty, violent poetry, but poetry nonetheless. Had I not promised my son a trip to Friendly's, I would have gladly stayed till the last second of the final match.

I hope my kids make it to black belt. I hope they continue to benefit from the confidence and discipline and sportsmanship they learn as part of their training. And I hope that if they do reach the level of black belt, they won’t mind if I shut my eyes when they step into that sparring ring.

Zen and the art of holding a baby...

There is Zen to be found in the act of holding a baby. My children are eight and eleven, and I am just learning this lesson now.

Last week I received a call from a woman at church asking if I could make a meal for a young couple in our congregation who had just had a baby. Apparently the baby had been born prematurely, was very colicky and was crying almost non-stop when awake (uh-oh). Which was pretty much all the time since the baby also wasn’t sleeping (yikes). The woman explained that she was trying the “young moms” on her list (apparently none of the young moms picked up the phone because she got me). She thought that in addition to the meal, I might be able to provide a little wisdom, companionship and solidarity for the new mother.

The next day, armed with a positive attitude and homemade macaroni and cheese, I drove to the young couple’s house and pulled into the driveway. Before I could even shut off the engine, the front door swung open. And that’s when I saw more than just a tired young woman in sweatpants and a ponytail holding a crying baby. I saw my past.

For the next hour I got to know the young mother (I’ll call her Dee) and her new son. After five weeks in the hospital, the baby came home and Dee and her husband became fully immersed in the all-consuming haze of new parenthood. Many of the challenges Dee faced were the same I had faced eleven years ago: A baby with feeding issues; a husband who worked long hours; no immediate family in the area; a neighborhood made up of older couples with grown children. As we discussed the similarities of our situations, I was transported back in time. Here was another mother who fiercely loved her newborn son, yet felt unprepared and overwhelmed by the sudden changes in her life. I sat and listened and empathized with Dee, and then did the one thing I could do to help: I held the baby.

Ironically, he was perfectly behaved during my visit. As he finished his bottle and burped for me, Dee sat and ate her lunch with two hands (two hands!) As the baby drifted off to sleep in my arms, she tentatively asked if she could wash some bottles and do a few other chores around the house. Shooing her off, I sat and contemplated the snoozing bundle in my arms. As I listened to his soft breathing and watched his lips involuntarily twitch into a smile, I did something I’ve rarely done in the past: focus on just holding a baby and nothing else.

When my older son was born, rather than enjoying the peace of those moments I would worry about the challenges I might face when he woke up. Would he be happy? Hungry? Would he fuss and cry? Would I be able to comfort him? Would I lose my mind? And what about all the things that needed to get done around the house: The laundry, the bottles, and the clutter. When my second son was born, though I tried to savor those moments, I couldn’t help but wonder what the three-year-old was up to in the next room.

Eleven years later, here was my chance to clear my mind and focus all my thoughts and attention on the sleeping child in my arms. To enjoy the warmth and softness of his Carters-clad body; to listen to his rhythmic breathing; to enjoy the sweet scent of his head. I wasn’t multi-tasking or reading or watching television at the same time, I was just immersed in the moment. By the time Dee returned, my pulse rate had slowed and my mind was clear. I felt as refreshed as if I had taken a yoga class (without all the stretching and sweating). Dee thanked me, but honestly, I should have been thanking her.

Driving home, I felt nostalgia for the long-gone infancy of my own children: Would I have enjoyed those quiet moments more if I knew then what I know now? Or was I only capable of relaxing with a baby that wasn’t my own? As I pulled into my own driveway, I decided that the past is the past and that I really do enjoy my children more as they get older.

But if I need another Zen baby moment, I know who to call.

Notes on "The Prom"

Last week a friend invited me over to bear witness to an important rite of passage in her teenage daughter's life. Before you get uncomfortable, I'm referring, of course, to the prom. Last Friday, amid 90-degree heat, I drove to my friend's house and watched an exceptionally pretty girl transform herself into a goddess worthy of any red carpet occasion. All the months of listening to my friend's struggles to find the right dress, the right shoes, the right handbag had finally paid off. And while I enjoyed getting a glimpse of her daughter's magical evening, I couldn't help but be a little sad myself. Not so much because I'm the mother of two boys. Although let's face it, how much fun is it to stuff your sullen teenage boy into a tuxedo and push him out the door? But seriously, the reason I felt a bit melancholy was due to the tragic secret I keep hidden from my own past.

I did not go to my prom.

Now some of you reading this might just think "big deal, so what?" while others are physically recoiling in horror. I'll give you all a moment to collect yourselves.

Yes, sad to say, I did not attend my prom. And while I could make up all kinds of excuses ("I broke my leg", "my family was in Paris that week", etc) the pure and simple truth was that no one asked me.

Ouch. 28 years later and that still stings. But before the notes of Janis Ian's pathetic girl anthem "At Seventeen" start creeping in, let me clarify a few things. I enjoyed high school. I look back on it as one of the best times of my life. I had a lot of different friends: some jocks, some brains, some "burnouts", some in "the clique". And while I didn't fit into any one group, I socialized with people from all groups. So overall, I have very fond memories of high school. And yet I still brace myself whenever someone talks about their prom, knowing they will ask me about mine. Do I stay mum or disclose the sad truth?

Many of you have seen the movie "Pretty in Pink" with Molly Ringwald (Several of you who can recite its dialogue line by line…you know who you are.) At one point in the movie Annie Potts, who plays the older, wiser co-worker, talks about a friend who skipped her prom. She says, "Once in a while she gets a terrible feeling, like something is missing. She checks her purse and her keys, she counts her kids, she goes crazy. And then she realizes that... nothing is missing. She decided it was side effects from skipping the prom." Every time I see that scene I think, "My God, that's me."

And while we're on the subject, when did "The Prom" become just "Prom"? Was there some official decision to drop the article "the" and just go with "Prom"? The scene where Molly Ringwald confronts Andrew McCarthy screaming "What about prom Blaine, what about prom?" still gets under my skin. But I digress.

Not long ago, I was walking with a friend and we talked about our lives prior to husbands and kids. She told me a little about her high school experience, and then surprised me by disclosing the fact that she didn't go to her prom. I held my breath when I asked why and when she said, "No on asked me" her status immediately jumped from close friend to soul sister: A kindred spirit.

The other night when I had had my fill of watching beautiful girls in gowns pose with handsome boys in tuxes, I went home and gave my husband the re-cap. When I asked about his prom, he replied, "I didn't go". My reaction was fairly apoplectic. We've been married for over 14 years, and he waited until now to share this little nugget? When I demanded to know why he never mentioned this before he said, "It really wasn't that important". He then confessed that not one but two girls had turned him down and that's when I realized that there are worst things than not being asked.

Here's hoping everyone who attended the prom had a wonderful time, and for those who didn't...fear not. You can still live fulfilling, productive, enriching lives. Take it from someone who knows.

Oh my gosh, where are my keys?