We signed Malcolm up for karate lessons. Any of you out there who have kids that Malcolm has bludgeoned in the past may wonder if this is a good idea, as it is kind of like giving a noted arsonist a box of matches or Tiger Woods a cell phone loaded with skanks’ phone numbers on it. The idea was Amy’s originally, and I looked at her with a raised eyebrow when she suggested it. I told her that it was a stupid idea as it would probably teach Malcolm how to sever a human head with his bare hands. After some cajoling, I did a little leg work and found a place that uses martial arts to teach concepts that are largely foreign to Malcolm: self control, discipline and respect. Eager to turn Malcolm into a productive member of society, I gave in and took him in this week for his first class.
Things got off to a rocky start when I joined the lone other parent there to watch the class. Although there was approximately 30 feet of open space for me to plunk down and observe, for some reason I sat down right next to the other parent there. We ended up sitting so close that our knees almost touched. If you need some help help envisioning the scene, imagine you were on a deserted beach and then a big fat guy with a cooler and boombox playing Wierd Al music plopped down on your towel and asked you to rub sunscreen on his hairy back. That’s probably what the other parent was imagining, and he promptly moved ten feet away.
Things didn’t get much better when Malcolm jumped up to perform his first exercise, leaving a large pile of sand on the floor where he had been sitting. The sensai asked Malcolm where he got it (it was rogue sand stuck in crevices from Malcolm’s preschool sandbox) and shot me a look to let me know that large piles of sand do not belong on the mat. The sensai had to stop the class to go and fetch a broom to clean up the mess, during which a large stifling silence enveloped the room. It was about this time, that my phone got very interesting and I pretended to be quite involved in my game of Iphone scrabble.
The rest of the class was everything I wanted it to be. The kids could not talk unless they were called on. The kids had to call the sensai, “Sir.” The kids could not perform the moves unless instructed to do so. When the kids were not performing exercises, they needed to be sitting on the mat quietly. What I, perhaps, liked best was that when they did not do these things satisfactorily, they were ordered to do push ups. Push ups! I don’t think there is a better way to punish unwanted behavior than to order the offending party to do push ups. I can tell you right now, that I would be a better husband and father if Amy ordered me to do push ups every time I stayed out late drinking or let Malcolm watch too much TV. Watching other people do push ups is kinda fun though, especially kids, as their “push ups” look more like a baby seal trying to climb up stairs.
The kids respond well to the teacher, and don’t seem to mind the rules all that much. Of course, they learn to block, punch and kick, but while they are doing it, they are learning balance and coordination. Amy and I are very excited about the prospects, but deep down I am a little bothered that if this works, it will mean that Amy is right and that I was wrong. Anyone in a loving, committed relationship can certainly understand the difficulty in having to say, “You were right, honey” and having them hold it over your head. It is a risk I am willing to take, and hopefully Amy will handle it with style and grace. You never know, she may make me start doing push ups.
Tags: parenting
Loading ...
My brother had his daughter in karate for a few years and he told me this about karate parents: be prepared for bitchin’ mullets and tank-tops.
Sadly, I am always on the lookout for bitchin myllets and tank tops. Just a thing with me.