Never ask a brown belt to demonstrate a karate move on you.
They will.
And it hurts.
I was standing in the kitchen the other day, thinking about karate. I learned two new escape moves Monday night, basic maneuvers that are precursors to more complicated moves that I will learn in the future. Well, I am supposed to learn in the future. One of the benefits of having carted General Mayhem to karate classes for the last seven years is that now that he is older, stronger, faster, and more knowledgeable about the martial arts than at any other point in his young life, he can show me things that I would otherwise have to wait for our sensei to teach me. That is precisely how I ended up standing in the kitchen, looking at my son and saying, “Show me.”
Now I know how curiosity killed the cat.
Having just learned from the young lad how to escape a specific grasp and place the attacker in an awkward, uncomfortable, and vulnerable position, I asked the General what move he would use next. We discussed a couple of different strikes before he said, “I would probably hit him with a knife hand strike to the armpit and hit his pressure point.”
Do you see it coming?
I said, “Show me.”
My son, being the kind and considerate young man that he is, demonstrated a knife hand strike that ended with his finger tip an inch from my arm pit.
“No,” I said. “Make contact. Don’t cream me. I’m just wondering how effective the move really is.”
Did I mention he’s fast? I didn’t see his hand slice through the air. I know that he only used about 10% of the force he could have used. Still, in an instant I couldn’t move my arm. It tingled from my shoulder to my finger tips, and hung limply at my side. My emphatic “Ow!” was answered by “I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry” which, through my laughter, I assured him was entirely unnecessary since I was stupid enough to ask him to hit me and if I could only regain the use of my right hand everything would be fine.
Which I did.
And it was.
Still, we stood there staring in fascination as waves of goose bumps rolled up and down my arm. That’s when I learned that you should never ask a brown belt to demonstrate a karate move on you.
They will.
And it hurts.
Showing posts with label Karate. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Karate. Show all posts
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Monday, January 24, 2011
The One Time You Want A Dead Battery
The big concern that The Boss had for the swallowed battery was what could possibly leak out of the battery and into the daughter. The obvious answer, electricity, never crossed my mind. I’m not certain that it crossed hers, either. Apparently, there is enough liquid inside the human digestive system to complete the electrical circuit and cook your innards. The challenge for doctors is determining whether you munched on a dead wafer battery for a camping headlamp or a Lifeline marine battery used to push a harbor ferry. I was more than a little surprised to discover that the children’s hospital sees these kinds of cases regularly. Two things made the Captain’s digestive adventure less troublesome than the average case. The first was that the battery was dead, or nearly so. The second was that she had told her mother that she had swallowed “a coin” right away. Most parents find out that their kid swallowed a battery long after severe damage is done on the inside of the body. You can burn a hole through things like your esophagus, stomach, and intestines. They’re a tad corrosive, too.
Saturday afternoon, I left the boy scouts at their campsite and returned to town to assist The Boss with our daughter. I returned to the campsite early Sunday morning to help the scouts pack for the return trip. I didn’t take Major Havoc out to spend Saturday night camping for two reasons. The first was that I did not want to be out of phone contact with The Boss. I assumed that I would be picking up the girls from the hospital late Saturday night or early Sunday morning after the battery was removed. I never gave any serious consideration to the fact that the Captain would become an in-patient. The second reason was that he didn’t want to go. The temperature dropped considerably Sunday morning. The wind picked up, the wind chill dropped, and the camping was tough. Our Scoutmaster’s first comment to me on Sunday was, “So, Arby, were you warm last night?” I bypassed the answer he deserved, “You can kiss my ass,” for the honest assessment, “Yep. Mighty warm. Warmer than you were, I’m sure.” It appeared to me that he was a little annoyed by the whole ordeal, as if we had spoon fed a battery to our daughter just to take me away from camping. I’m probably wrong in my assessment. Some times he’s a hard man to read.
Upon returning, I showered and then drove to Children’s Mercy to relieved The Boss. I spent twenty-four hours in the hospital with the girl. She was discharged today after a fairly cool test revealed that she had no damage to her esophagus. It was a video x-ray of her swallowing contrast. I did get to speak with one of the doctors who operated on the Captain a few years ago. He met a healthy, re-Energized former patient. That had to be good for them. When he heard what she had swallowed, he called for her test results and delivered them to me in person a short while later. He wasn’t even assigned to her case. He’s a good guy. The girl packed away a huge lunch, her first solid food in 48 hours, and immediately asked for more. Since she had spent two hours with the dry heaves during the night, we waited to make sure that she’d wouldn’t hork, and then called it good. I phoned The Boss as soon as I heard we had discharge papers. The girl and I were out of the room fifteen minutes later. I wanted to be as far away from the doctors as possible in case they changed their minds. We waited in the lobby. And then we went to karate class, the first night of our new semester. The Captain and I received our yellow belts. It was an odd way to finish a day that started in the hospital. Life has returned to normal, one blog post away from sanity.
Saturday afternoon, I left the boy scouts at their campsite and returned to town to assist The Boss with our daughter. I returned to the campsite early Sunday morning to help the scouts pack for the return trip. I didn’t take Major Havoc out to spend Saturday night camping for two reasons. The first was that I did not want to be out of phone contact with The Boss. I assumed that I would be picking up the girls from the hospital late Saturday night or early Sunday morning after the battery was removed. I never gave any serious consideration to the fact that the Captain would become an in-patient. The second reason was that he didn’t want to go. The temperature dropped considerably Sunday morning. The wind picked up, the wind chill dropped, and the camping was tough. Our Scoutmaster’s first comment to me on Sunday was, “So, Arby, were you warm last night?” I bypassed the answer he deserved, “You can kiss my ass,” for the honest assessment, “Yep. Mighty warm. Warmer than you were, I’m sure.” It appeared to me that he was a little annoyed by the whole ordeal, as if we had spoon fed a battery to our daughter just to take me away from camping. I’m probably wrong in my assessment. Some times he’s a hard man to read.
Upon returning, I showered and then drove to Children’s Mercy to relieved The Boss. I spent twenty-four hours in the hospital with the girl. She was discharged today after a fairly cool test revealed that she had no damage to her esophagus. It was a video x-ray of her swallowing contrast. I did get to speak with one of the doctors who operated on the Captain a few years ago. He met a healthy, re-Energized former patient. That had to be good for them. When he heard what she had swallowed, he called for her test results and delivered them to me in person a short while later. He wasn’t even assigned to her case. He’s a good guy. The girl packed away a huge lunch, her first solid food in 48 hours, and immediately asked for more. Since she had spent two hours with the dry heaves during the night, we waited to make sure that she’d wouldn’t hork, and then called it good. I phoned The Boss as soon as I heard we had discharge papers. The girl and I were out of the room fifteen minutes later. I wanted to be as far away from the doctors as possible in case they changed their minds. We waited in the lobby. And then we went to karate class, the first night of our new semester. The Captain and I received our yellow belts. It was an odd way to finish a day that started in the hospital. Life has returned to normal, one blog post away from sanity.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Vertically Challenged Martial Artists
There’s a young lady in my karate class who is quite self-conscious about enthusiastically participating. General Mayhem told me that she is a green belt. If so, she’s studied karate for a year-and-a-half. In that time she hasn’t gotten past her embarrassment of screaming “Kee-yah!” while striking or kicking, or yelling “YOU ARE NOT MY FATHER!” during an escape drill. Young Champions places a lot of emphasis on teaching young children how recognize and protect themselves from Stranger Danger. If she thinks it’s hard to scream “Help, stranger danger!” as loudly as possible at age 13, she ought to try it at 45.
After a few weeks in class, I have developed a pretty good report with my fellow white belts. Once the four-year-old set got past looking up at their classmate from his knees, they realized they have nothing to fear. I do a fairly good job of keeping my row of students quiet and listening, while allowing time to discuss important matters, such as how many toes Collin has on each foot. Collin told me last night that the big toe on his right foot was bothering him.
“It’s red,” he explained. Then he pointed to each toe on that foot and said, “And this one’s red…and this one’s red…and this one’s red, too.”
“Wow!” I earnestly replied. “How many toes do you have?!”
He counted. “Five!”
“Five? That’s a lot of toes! Do you have the same amount of toes on your other foot?”
Collin immediately started counting the toes on his left foot. It was then that I realized three other students who had been listening to our exchange began counting all of their toes. You could read their thoughts as they counted. “Do I have five toes one each foot, too?”
Collin and Connor were the two white belts I made friends with last night. Collin is a towhead and Connor has dark brown hair. Both boys are four years old, and both of them have a huge crush on Captain Chaos. Apparently, they like older women. They jockeyed to sit next to her. Collin was prone to cry in frustration if he lost his place in line behind her. Poor kids. The Boss and I already know that the poor fool who dates our daughter is going to have a tiger by the tail, with absolutely no idea what to do next. As for my little cougar, she was more interested in locating her mother and waving “hello,” since the Boss and the boys arrived early to attend a make-up class after missing their regular class last week.
At each class, a group of parent helpers assist our sensei by holding blocking bags for students to punch and kick. I was a parent helper for years. When a four-year-old kicks a bag, you can barely feel it. You should see the look of terror on a parent helper’s face when a 6’ 2” and 232 pound man (I’ve lost ten pounds since I started my diet) runs up to them, stops, and prepares to kick the bag they’re holding. The women all giggle when I look them in the eyes and yell, “Help! You’re not my mom!” I’m fairly certain that I am older than all of them.
I’d like to speak with the young, embarrassed green belt and tell her, “You have nothing about which to be embarrassed. You are learning a skill that will serve you well in life. There is a tremendous amount of power added to a strike when you yell as you land a punch. And if you are too embarrassed to put your all into a strike or kick in the safety of our dojo, will you be able to it when someone is grabbing you on the street corner?” I hope she continues to study. I hope to see her self-confidence develop.
If I can do it, anyone can.
After a few weeks in class, I have developed a pretty good report with my fellow white belts. Once the four-year-old set got past looking up at their classmate from his knees, they realized they have nothing to fear. I do a fairly good job of keeping my row of students quiet and listening, while allowing time to discuss important matters, such as how many toes Collin has on each foot. Collin told me last night that the big toe on his right foot was bothering him.
“It’s red,” he explained. Then he pointed to each toe on that foot and said, “And this one’s red…and this one’s red…and this one’s red, too.”
“Wow!” I earnestly replied. “How many toes do you have?!”
He counted. “Five!”
“Five? That’s a lot of toes! Do you have the same amount of toes on your other foot?”
Collin immediately started counting the toes on his left foot. It was then that I realized three other students who had been listening to our exchange began counting all of their toes. You could read their thoughts as they counted. “Do I have five toes one each foot, too?”
Collin and Connor were the two white belts I made friends with last night. Collin is a towhead and Connor has dark brown hair. Both boys are four years old, and both of them have a huge crush on Captain Chaos. Apparently, they like older women. They jockeyed to sit next to her. Collin was prone to cry in frustration if he lost his place in line behind her. Poor kids. The Boss and I already know that the poor fool who dates our daughter is going to have a tiger by the tail, with absolutely no idea what to do next. As for my little cougar, she was more interested in locating her mother and waving “hello,” since the Boss and the boys arrived early to attend a make-up class after missing their regular class last week.
At each class, a group of parent helpers assist our sensei by holding blocking bags for students to punch and kick. I was a parent helper for years. When a four-year-old kicks a bag, you can barely feel it. You should see the look of terror on a parent helper’s face when a 6’ 2” and 232 pound man (I’ve lost ten pounds since I started my diet) runs up to them, stops, and prepares to kick the bag they’re holding. The women all giggle when I look them in the eyes and yell, “Help! You’re not my mom!” I’m fairly certain that I am older than all of them.
I’d like to speak with the young, embarrassed green belt and tell her, “You have nothing about which to be embarrassed. You are learning a skill that will serve you well in life. There is a tremendous amount of power added to a strike when you yell as you land a punch. And if you are too embarrassed to put your all into a strike or kick in the safety of our dojo, will you be able to it when someone is grabbing you on the street corner?” I hope she continues to study. I hope to see her self-confidence develop.
If I can do it, anyone can.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Beanie Banana
“Dad, Can we hear ‘Beanie Banana’?” asked Captain Chaos. She pronounced “banana” as“bahnahnah,” the only word she can say and sound British at the same time.
We were climbing in the car last night to drive to karate class, where I took great pleasure in kicking the snot out of a big red bag. Big red bags beware, you don’t want to mess with me.
What is Beanie Banana?” I asked in reply.
“You know, Beanie Banana!”
Because in the land of short people, the act of repeating what you just said is enough information to answer any question. “Of course! What was I thinking? Beanie Banana!” That is the answer they are expecting.
She started singing. “Beanie Banana…Beanie Banana…”
When you only know two imaginary words to the song you are looking for, it’s difficult to sing.
Luckily for the Captain, Dad knew what she was looking for.
“Lady Madonna,” by the Beatles. At least she has good taste.
We were climbing in the car last night to drive to karate class, where I took great pleasure in kicking the snot out of a big red bag. Big red bags beware, you don’t want to mess with me.
What is Beanie Banana?” I asked in reply.
“You know, Beanie Banana!”
Because in the land of short people, the act of repeating what you just said is enough information to answer any question. “Of course! What was I thinking? Beanie Banana!” That is the answer they are expecting.
She started singing. “Beanie Banana…Beanie Banana…”
When you only know two imaginary words to the song you are looking for, it’s difficult to sing.
Luckily for the Captain, Dad knew what she was looking for.
“Lady Madonna,” by the Beatles. At least she has good taste.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Daddy, What's God Doing?
Have you ever met someone who was so happy, so optimistic, so there’s-always-a-bright-side-to-life that you wanted to kick their happy ass down the street? When you’re having a bad day, the last thing you need is some cheerful putz telling you to buck up, little camper, ‘cause life ain’t that bad. If you’re a dedicated curmudgeon then you’ve met at least one. I have one of those people stuck in my head. Yes, it’s a little voice in the back of my mind that reminds me that no matter how difficult or troublesome or annoying my day might be, I am blessed far beyond what I deserve. Today, I was looking for a club to beat that voice into silence. A little blunt force trauma to the head was preferable to the day I had.
Tonight, the girl and I had a double karate class. She was very good through one 45 minute class. She was not very patient during the first 44 minutes of the 45 minute second class. I received some excellent practice during the second class. The girl talked loudly about how much she wanted to be anywhere except the second karate class. It was the perfect end to a long day.
Then, in the car on the way home, princess Chatsnonstop asked, “Dad, what’s God doing right now?”
I laughed. “I don’t know, honey. I really don’t know what God is doing right now.”
I thought about telling her that God was watching over us, protecting us on the ride home, but I did not feel like trying to explain to her how I knew that. I was tired.
“I know what He’s doing,” she replied.
“You do?”
“Yep!”
“Okay. What is God doing right now?” I asked.
“Bowling!” she exclaimed.
I looked out the window. There was no rain. There was no thunder. There was just a happy, chatty, imaginative little girl passing the time in the back seat of the van while her father drove them both home.
And that made my day a whole lot better.
Tonight, the girl and I had a double karate class. She was very good through one 45 minute class. She was not very patient during the first 44 minutes of the 45 minute second class. I received some excellent practice during the second class. The girl talked loudly about how much she wanted to be anywhere except the second karate class. It was the perfect end to a long day.
Then, in the car on the way home, princess Chatsnonstop asked, “Dad, what’s God doing right now?”
I laughed. “I don’t know, honey. I really don’t know what God is doing right now.”
I thought about telling her that God was watching over us, protecting us on the ride home, but I did not feel like trying to explain to her how I knew that. I was tired.
“I know what He’s doing,” she replied.
“You do?”
“Yep!”
“Okay. What is God doing right now?” I asked.
“Bowling!” she exclaimed.
I looked out the window. There was no rain. There was no thunder. There was just a happy, chatty, imaginative little girl passing the time in the back seat of the van while her father drove them both home.
And that made my day a whole lot better.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
A Late Monday Night
So, we went to Karate last night and Captain Chaos cooperated extremely well. We learned a few basic moves such as the front thrust kick and escape-from-Stranger-Danger maneuvers. She was as coordinated and attentive as any other six year old in the class. At the end of class, Sensei made us play a game where we crab walked around the gym while parent-helpers walked around trying to hit us with foam blockers. We had to keep moving, stopping only long enough to throw a Raising Block to protect our noggins. There were fifty kids and a few adults crab walking around in an embarrassing mass of humanity. I noticed that Captain Chaos wasn’t participating. I realized that she didn’t know how to do a crab walk. I went over to her and helped her get in the crab walk position so that she could participate. She tried her best and had fun. Near the end of class, Sensei asked the entire class what they learned. One student called out, “Front thrust kick!” Another student called out, “Stranger danger!” Captain Chaos called out, “Crab walking!”
Upon arriving at class both the Boss and I told the kind building supervisor who always listens to Monday Night Football on the radio not to tell us the score of the Packers/Bears game. A cheese-head by birth, the Boss bleeds green and gold. How this Bear fan met, fell in love with, and made children with a Packer fan is beyond my limited mortal understanding. It just goes to show you how powerful those wily womanly ways really are. Watching two Bears/Packers football games each year is a tradition that dates back to 1995. Our DVR was scheduled to record the game. Bob had a good laugh, and promised not to say a word. We watched the game after we returned home.
There’s a problem with recording football games. Frequently they last longer than three hours, the length of time allotted to a game on a standard TV schedule. Last night’s game was no exception. Late in the fourth quarter, after the Bears’ Brian Urlacher stripped the ball from a Packer receiver with 2:18 left to play in the game, the recording stopped. THE RECORDING STOPPED! It was 12:15 am Tuesday morning. We stayed up late to watch THE rivalry of the year, and THE RECORDING STOPPED! Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn!
That is, of course, what the Boss said when we went online and learned that the Bears kicked a field goal with 4 seconds left in the game. They won 20-17. I’m lucky the Boss loves me as much as she does, or I might have needed a couple of those self-defense moves that I learned earlier last night.
Upon arriving at class both the Boss and I told the kind building supervisor who always listens to Monday Night Football on the radio not to tell us the score of the Packers/Bears game. A cheese-head by birth, the Boss bleeds green and gold. How this Bear fan met, fell in love with, and made children with a Packer fan is beyond my limited mortal understanding. It just goes to show you how powerful those wily womanly ways really are. Watching two Bears/Packers football games each year is a tradition that dates back to 1995. Our DVR was scheduled to record the game. Bob had a good laugh, and promised not to say a word. We watched the game after we returned home.
There’s a problem with recording football games. Frequently they last longer than three hours, the length of time allotted to a game on a standard TV schedule. Last night’s game was no exception. Late in the fourth quarter, after the Bears’ Brian Urlacher stripped the ball from a Packer receiver with 2:18 left to play in the game, the recording stopped. THE RECORDING STOPPED! It was 12:15 am Tuesday morning. We stayed up late to watch THE rivalry of the year, and THE RECORDING STOPPED! Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn!
That is, of course, what the Boss said when we went online and learned that the Bears kicked a field goal with 4 seconds left in the game. They won 20-17. I’m lucky the Boss loves me as much as she does, or I might have needed a couple of those self-defense moves that I learned earlier last night.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Squeaky Shoes and Other News
I have squeaky shoes.
That’s what I get for buying cheap sneakers from Wal-Mart in an after-Christmas sale. The air chambers in both shoes developed a leak, so with each step I take air is expelled from one air chamber while the other air chamber is refilling. I discovered this while painting the trim in our hallway. I kept hearing a squeaky sound behind me. I thought there might be a mouse in one of the bedrooms, but each time I stepped into a room and stood still to listen for the critter the squeaking would stop. When I returned to the hallway it resumed. I discovered the truth when the mouse went jogging with me.
Captain Chaos petitioned me for something to eat while I was working with General Mayhem on math. We were standing at the chalkboard combining like terms in binomial and trinomial phrases when the girl appeared at my knee caps.
“DadcanIhavecrackers?Please?DadcanIhavecrackers?I’dreallyliketohavesomecrackersdadTheyareonthe counterCan I have some please?” she rattled off like a St. Valentine’s Day machine gun.
Without giving me a chance to reply she wandered off. That’s when I heard her add, “They will make me happy and strong!”
Yesterday was “Scout Day at the K,” the annual promotion at Kaufman Stadium where scouts who sold a bajillion dollars worth of popcorn attended the game for free.
It was a typical Kansas City Royals baseball game. They were out of the game by the fourth inning. Honestly, they should rename the team the Cubs West. I noticed that this year the team is flying a large blue flag commemorating 25 years since the Royals won the World Series. What that really means is that they haven’t accomplished anything significant in25 years. Can you imagine a flag flying over Wrigley Field commemorating 102 years since their last World Series? That won’t change this year, either, as the Cubs still haven’t installed a goat at Wrigley. Write those letters, folks!
Anyway, if the Royals were out of the game by the fourth inning, Major Havoc was out of the game by the first. Nothing I did kept his attention. He seems to be under the impression that the entire purpose of going to the ballpark is to eat five dollar hot dogs and drink five dollar bottles of water and eat equally overpriced cotton candy. When he did not get to do these things he made the game fairly miserable. Between announcing how bored he was and bouncing up and down in his seat like he had springs in his butt, he pretended to shoot yellow cars as they drove past the stadium on interstate 70. He spent the sixth inning making fart noises on his hand. Whenever the Royals attempted to generate false interest in the game by displaying “MAKE SOME NOISE” on the Jumbotron he screeched with all the ear-piercing enthusiasm of a pre-pubescent boy. Just when I thought my right eardrum would start to bleed he decided to sit on my other side and significantly reduce my hearing ability in that ear, too. When the decibel meter on the Jumbotron hit the highest mark he turned to me and said, “Dad, look, I did that with my voice!”
“Huh?”
I resolved yesterday to never again car pool to a baseball game. I liked the people I was with and I enjoyed their company, but if I had had my own wheels we would have been out of that stadium after the second inning, the inning I spent in a concession line for our ONLY food purchase of the day. That’s where I enjoyed watching the cashier walk away from the counter and disappear for ten minutes to loudly berate the kitchen staff for repeatedly ignoring her calls for corn dogs. Those guys just stared at her, showing absolutely no interest in moving faster than tar balls on a Louisiana beach. Go Royals!
Tonight I open a new chapter in my life. Tonight I begin Karate class. General Mayhem has attended Young Champions Karate classes for seven years. Eighteen months ago both the Major and the Boss began learning Karate. Now it’s the Captain’s turn, and I get to attend class with her. This should be interesting. Captain Chaos is the girl who puts the hyper in hyperactive. She moves so much she makes hummingbirds nervous. She’s the girl that jumped into one of the General’s classes and told one very serious sensei that she was a pink belt ready for class. The man stared at her, completely lost for words. My daughter is very excited. She has been ready to start Karate for a year. We told her that when she turned six years old she could start class. Now she’s six. I suspect that I am entering an entirely new source of blog material.
That’s what I get for buying cheap sneakers from Wal-Mart in an after-Christmas sale. The air chambers in both shoes developed a leak, so with each step I take air is expelled from one air chamber while the other air chamber is refilling. I discovered this while painting the trim in our hallway. I kept hearing a squeaky sound behind me. I thought there might be a mouse in one of the bedrooms, but each time I stepped into a room and stood still to listen for the critter the squeaking would stop. When I returned to the hallway it resumed. I discovered the truth when the mouse went jogging with me.
***
Captain Chaos petitioned me for something to eat while I was working with General Mayhem on math. We were standing at the chalkboard combining like terms in binomial and trinomial phrases when the girl appeared at my knee caps.
“DadcanIhavecrackers?Please?DadcanIhavecrackers?I’dreallyliketohavesomecrackersdadTheyareonthe counterCan I have some please?” she rattled off like a St. Valentine’s Day machine gun.
Without giving me a chance to reply she wandered off. That’s when I heard her add, “They will make me happy and strong!”
***
Yesterday was “Scout Day at the K,” the annual promotion at Kaufman Stadium where scouts who sold a bajillion dollars worth of popcorn attended the game for free.
It was a typical Kansas City Royals baseball game. They were out of the game by the fourth inning. Honestly, they should rename the team the Cubs West. I noticed that this year the team is flying a large blue flag commemorating 25 years since the Royals won the World Series. What that really means is that they haven’t accomplished anything significant in25 years. Can you imagine a flag flying over Wrigley Field commemorating 102 years since their last World Series? That won’t change this year, either, as the Cubs still haven’t installed a goat at Wrigley. Write those letters, folks!
Anyway, if the Royals were out of the game by the fourth inning, Major Havoc was out of the game by the first. Nothing I did kept his attention. He seems to be under the impression that the entire purpose of going to the ballpark is to eat five dollar hot dogs and drink five dollar bottles of water and eat equally overpriced cotton candy. When he did not get to do these things he made the game fairly miserable. Between announcing how bored he was and bouncing up and down in his seat like he had springs in his butt, he pretended to shoot yellow cars as they drove past the stadium on interstate 70. He spent the sixth inning making fart noises on his hand. Whenever the Royals attempted to generate false interest in the game by displaying “MAKE SOME NOISE” on the Jumbotron he screeched with all the ear-piercing enthusiasm of a pre-pubescent boy. Just when I thought my right eardrum would start to bleed he decided to sit on my other side and significantly reduce my hearing ability in that ear, too. When the decibel meter on the Jumbotron hit the highest mark he turned to me and said, “Dad, look, I did that with my voice!”
“Huh?”
I resolved yesterday to never again car pool to a baseball game. I liked the people I was with and I enjoyed their company, but if I had had my own wheels we would have been out of that stadium after the second inning, the inning I spent in a concession line for our ONLY food purchase of the day. That’s where I enjoyed watching the cashier walk away from the counter and disappear for ten minutes to loudly berate the kitchen staff for repeatedly ignoring her calls for corn dogs. Those guys just stared at her, showing absolutely no interest in moving faster than tar balls on a Louisiana beach. Go Royals!
***
Tonight I open a new chapter in my life. Tonight I begin Karate class. General Mayhem has attended Young Champions Karate classes for seven years. Eighteen months ago both the Major and the Boss began learning Karate. Now it’s the Captain’s turn, and I get to attend class with her. This should be interesting. Captain Chaos is the girl who puts the hyper in hyperactive. She moves so much she makes hummingbirds nervous. She’s the girl that jumped into one of the General’s classes and told one very serious sensei that she was a pink belt ready for class. The man stared at her, completely lost for words. My daughter is very excited. She has been ready to start Karate for a year. We told her that when she turned six years old she could start class. Now she’s six. I suspect that I am entering an entirely new source of blog material.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
Don't Stranger-Danger the Kindergarten Teacher
The Boss said that it was time to push the reset button. She said we all needed a chance to step back and regroup. Major Havoc saw it as an opportunity to try something that was new and cool and different, until it stopped being new and cool and different and he karate chopped his teacher on the neck. I kinda thought that by shipping General Mayhem off to school we were guaranteeing that our 12 year old son would see 13. In the short time span of January to April of this year we’ve gone from being a homeschooling family to a public schooling family and back to a homeschooling family again. At least with the Major and the Captain.
In our fifth year of homeschooling, the effort began to fall apart. General Mayhem was lonely and miserable. Part of this was our inability to find an active homeschooling group that was near our home, met regularly, and had children his age. Because the Captain did attend preschool four days each week from noon to three, we didn’t have the time to travel far for homeschool activities in other communities and still return home in time for her class. Part of the problem rested with the General. He attended karate class on Monday nights, Boy Scouts on Tuesday nights, and religion class on Wednesday nights, but was unwilling to speak with anyone his age, attempt to make friends, or get a phone number and invite someone over to play. He refused to go to youth group on Saturday nights. I honestly do not know why he was so standoffish. I do know that by the time the Boss returned home from Iraq in December, (and we do not know how much of an issue her departure was as he refuses to talk about it) his attention to school work was lackluster, at best. His attitude was horrible. After taking a much needed week-long trip to Florida in January, we enrolled the General at Apathy Middle School.
The best thing that can be said about his attendance at Apathy Middle School is that General Mayhem is a happier person. He is happy because he spends his day around kids his age and he gets to attend gym class. He hasn’t made any good friends. He doesn’t have the phone numbers of kids he’d like to see over summer vacation, but the fact that he hangs around kids his age all day long and gets to bean other students upside the head during dodge ball in gym class makes him happy. The General will admit that his academic work is not as challenging as our homeschooling work was. The Boss and I cringe when we see how disorganized the math instruction is and how the language arts teacher gives due dates for assignments and then doesn’t collect the work until four days after the due date. But we aren’t going to sweat it for now. It’s one half of a year in the sixth grade. How much damage can they do?
Shortly after the General started attending school, Major Havoc asked if he could go to school. He saw his brother going to school in the morning and his sister going to preschool in the afternoon and there were children playing on the playground when we dropped the Captain off at school and he decided that he wanted to be a part of the action. After some consultation with the Boss it was decided that the Major would attend Apathy Elementary School. In one short week I went from being a stay-at-home father of three, homeschooling two, to being a stay-at-home dad and car pool lane jockey.
The Major’s transition was difficult. At home his behavior deteriorated and he regressed in terms of how he communicated. His frequent nightmares returned. He was sick a lot. At school, a select few classmates taught the Major how to spit on the carpet in the classroom, to belligerently disregard instruction while pursuing other interests, and how to wander away from class activities to play on the other side of the room. This was the all important “socialization” that homeschooling critics bellow we are depriving our children of when we keep them at home. I can honestly say that the boy never spit on our carpet at home. The Major learned to play games in the lunch room, and discovered by accident that if he spilled milk on himself at lunch the school nurse would give him a change of clothes. He enjoyed the idea of new threads each day so much he started having daily “accidents” with his milk in the lunchroom. I would have let him sit in wet clothes for the rest of the day. That would have ended that game. The enablers at Apathy Elementary saw it differently.
All of the stress and all of the poor behavior and all of the games came to an end when Major Havoc’s teacher walked up to me after school one day and said, “Major Havoc Stranger-Dangered me today.”
I couldn’t help myself. I started to laugh. The Major’s karate sensei teaches escape moves so that young children can get away from “Stranger Danger.” They are taught to yell, “Stranger Danger!” when they use one of these escape moves. Sometimes they yell, “Help, you’re not my mother!” The Major used one of the moves to escape from his teacher when she gently grabbed his arm during class. Unfortunately, Major Havoc modified the maneuver he deployed, adding a karate chop across her right shoulder after he escaped from her grasp. His teacher explained that she didn’t write a disciplinary report and didn’t call me to school and didn’t send him to the office because she thought it was her fault. She should have made eye contact with him before gently guiding him over to the activity the class was engaged in. Neither the Boss nor I could understand why we were the only two who were upset by what happened. The next day we withdrew the Major from school and restarted our homeschool.
The Major is happier at home. The stress is gone. He sleeps better, doesn’t spit on our carpet or spill his milk at lunch, and doesn’t have nightmares. Dad is happy to be homeschooling again. We are planning on keeping the Major and the Captain at home together next year. The jury is still out on General Mayhem, but we know he’ll be attending Apathy Middle School through the end of the year. There’s a dodge ball tournament coming up in two weeks. There’s still a lot of noggin’s to bean.
In our fifth year of homeschooling, the effort began to fall apart. General Mayhem was lonely and miserable. Part of this was our inability to find an active homeschooling group that was near our home, met regularly, and had children his age. Because the Captain did attend preschool four days each week from noon to three, we didn’t have the time to travel far for homeschool activities in other communities and still return home in time for her class. Part of the problem rested with the General. He attended karate class on Monday nights, Boy Scouts on Tuesday nights, and religion class on Wednesday nights, but was unwilling to speak with anyone his age, attempt to make friends, or get a phone number and invite someone over to play. He refused to go to youth group on Saturday nights. I honestly do not know why he was so standoffish. I do know that by the time the Boss returned home from Iraq in December, (and we do not know how much of an issue her departure was as he refuses to talk about it) his attention to school work was lackluster, at best. His attitude was horrible. After taking a much needed week-long trip to Florida in January, we enrolled the General at Apathy Middle School.
The best thing that can be said about his attendance at Apathy Middle School is that General Mayhem is a happier person. He is happy because he spends his day around kids his age and he gets to attend gym class. He hasn’t made any good friends. He doesn’t have the phone numbers of kids he’d like to see over summer vacation, but the fact that he hangs around kids his age all day long and gets to bean other students upside the head during dodge ball in gym class makes him happy. The General will admit that his academic work is not as challenging as our homeschooling work was. The Boss and I cringe when we see how disorganized the math instruction is and how the language arts teacher gives due dates for assignments and then doesn’t collect the work until four days after the due date. But we aren’t going to sweat it for now. It’s one half of a year in the sixth grade. How much damage can they do?
Shortly after the General started attending school, Major Havoc asked if he could go to school. He saw his brother going to school in the morning and his sister going to preschool in the afternoon and there were children playing on the playground when we dropped the Captain off at school and he decided that he wanted to be a part of the action. After some consultation with the Boss it was decided that the Major would attend Apathy Elementary School. In one short week I went from being a stay-at-home father of three, homeschooling two, to being a stay-at-home dad and car pool lane jockey.
The Major’s transition was difficult. At home his behavior deteriorated and he regressed in terms of how he communicated. His frequent nightmares returned. He was sick a lot. At school, a select few classmates taught the Major how to spit on the carpet in the classroom, to belligerently disregard instruction while pursuing other interests, and how to wander away from class activities to play on the other side of the room. This was the all important “socialization” that homeschooling critics bellow we are depriving our children of when we keep them at home. I can honestly say that the boy never spit on our carpet at home. The Major learned to play games in the lunch room, and discovered by accident that if he spilled milk on himself at lunch the school nurse would give him a change of clothes. He enjoyed the idea of new threads each day so much he started having daily “accidents” with his milk in the lunchroom. I would have let him sit in wet clothes for the rest of the day. That would have ended that game. The enablers at Apathy Elementary saw it differently.
All of the stress and all of the poor behavior and all of the games came to an end when Major Havoc’s teacher walked up to me after school one day and said, “Major Havoc Stranger-Dangered me today.”
I couldn’t help myself. I started to laugh. The Major’s karate sensei teaches escape moves so that young children can get away from “Stranger Danger.” They are taught to yell, “Stranger Danger!” when they use one of these escape moves. Sometimes they yell, “Help, you’re not my mother!” The Major used one of the moves to escape from his teacher when she gently grabbed his arm during class. Unfortunately, Major Havoc modified the maneuver he deployed, adding a karate chop across her right shoulder after he escaped from her grasp. His teacher explained that she didn’t write a disciplinary report and didn’t call me to school and didn’t send him to the office because she thought it was her fault. She should have made eye contact with him before gently guiding him over to the activity the class was engaged in. Neither the Boss nor I could understand why we were the only two who were upset by what happened. The next day we withdrew the Major from school and restarted our homeschool.
The Major is happier at home. The stress is gone. He sleeps better, doesn’t spit on our carpet or spill his milk at lunch, and doesn’t have nightmares. Dad is happy to be homeschooling again. We are planning on keeping the Major and the Captain at home together next year. The jury is still out on General Mayhem, but we know he’ll be attending Apathy Middle School through the end of the year. There’s a dodge ball tournament coming up in two weeks. There’s still a lot of noggin’s to bean.
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