Category: Stories about my fam

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I Work Out Stories about my fam

“Your Mom Does Karate”

One day when dropping off the child formerly known as Derek at kindergarten, Ms. Barnes pulled me aside. “Derek keeps telling people his mom can beat up their parents.”

My eyes narrowed as I tried to decide the next right thing to say. I knew it probably wasn’t, “Well, tell me more about them” or “Maybe I can” or “If this is about that one dad with the blackeye,… he should’ve blocked.”

So instead, I tried to stifle my grin and assured her I would talk to him about it.

My first attempt at anything martial artsy was in my late 20’s. A buddy wanted to try kick boxing and wanted company. NOT cardio kickboxing. Kickboxing in a grungy looking gym that smelled exactly like you’d think the ones in the movies would smell.

I’d never hit or kicked anything before, nor had I tried to avoid being hit or kicked. It felt amazing. I loved everything from methodical hand wrapping to the sight of a bag moving in response to the effort put in to a kick or punch. It was the first time that I recall exercise being an incidental part of a bigger goal; things like “I’m going to practice with my jump rope so I can have more cardio conditioning.” There were layers of activity that were all novel and interesting.

Kickboxing was not a good match for the maternity years, so my interest was on hold a minute.

When the boys hit 4 and 2, I decided to look into martial arts again.

Enter Northwest Martial Arts. American Kenpo Karate with Sifu Alan Myrtle and his son, Nick.

I wasn’t totally sure if it was going to be for me. But after 7 years of training, I’m pretty sure it was exactly what I needed.

The early lessons had all the things that capture my attention; challenge me, humble me, give me opportunity to grow and improve. Everything was awkward; task after task that felt exactly like the first time you try to rub your stomach and pat your head. As each task was understood(ish), there was another task to challenge again.

The memories of it all quicken my heart to this day.

Bad day at work? Take it out on the bag.

Ever wondered what it feels like to be thrown to the ground? Wonder no more. And, oh MY! The feeling of throwing someone else to the ground…! Just like Cobra Kai, I learned how to “sweep the leg!” I also learned the ability to cause submission by the gentle act of an arm bar.

Want to go ham on a fellow classmate with wooden sticks? Put on the padded suit and the face cage and get to it. (That was an epic one. “You going to tell people you beat a Deputy with a stick?” “Yea. You going to tell people you beat a social worker with a stick?” “Yea.”)

Want to know how you’ll do under pressure? Belt test. I was so nervous from before each one. I’ve locked my keys in my vehicle a total of 3 times in my life. Two of those times were on the day of my first brown belt test. In case you’re wondering, I went as far as 2nd degree brown belt. In my system, there is only 2 more belts till. Black. (Close! But yet, so far!)

Want to know if you feel comfortable being an outlier? Stand alone at a tournament sign-in table with your 2 young children in tow. “Are both boys competing?” “Actually, it’s me.” Then later, right before you put in your mouthguard tell your little ones to listen to Beth, “I’ll be right back.” I loved the tournaments. A way test your skill against others. A favorite was when I’d won against both a mom and a daughter. Probably both with a stopping knife edge kick. It was kinda all I had.

Curious how it would be to have a decent black eye as a social worker? Wait for the bare knuckle sparring that comes from some of the tests. For days, people at such places as Wright Education (the biggest anger management game in town), Juvenile Hall, and Children’s Services all got to see that I didn’t block. (sigh!)

I was there long enough to see martial arts cause some unbelievable transformations for children. Long before I’d been taught about the importance of physical activity in relation to neurosequential modeling, I was able to just see kids blossom in martial arts. Shy kids found their voice with a kiai. Busy kids got to stimulate their bodies so their minds could soothe. They simultaneously learned confidence and humility. I also got to watch them grow both in their bodies and in their skills. That day when the person who was a kid now kicks your ass,…that day is a special one.

I gave it a go with my kids, but it didn’t stick. No matter how cool Karate is, it’s going to lose some of it’s vibe when it’s your mom’s jam. I may as well have signed them up for needlepoint.

Over the years, there’s been more than a few day dreams of me vanquishing some enemy with my sneaky karate skill.  I’ve never had to test them for real to know. But I do know what it feels like to get struck. Which is nice.

I’m incredibly grateful for my Karate time. I highly encourage anyone to look in to self-defense and martial arts for more reasons than I could list in 100 blogs. But when you do, make sure you tell you kids something very important. “Just because mommy comes home and brags about beating someone, doesn’t mean we can say it to the other kids in Kindergarten.”

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Stories about my fam

Boy Mom Life

We didn’t find out what gender babies we were having. And even though I’m old AF, there was technology more advanced than holding a ring on a string above your swollen belly to determine your baby’s sex. I wanted no part of it. There’s not a lot better than a genuine “I did not see that coming” surprise nowadays.

I knew I wanted at least one man-child, so I was elated to hear the “it’s a boy” declaration when Daniel was born. I just assumed that my next kid would be a girl. Not that it was something I needed or anything that would’ve caused disappointed if it didn’t happen, it’s just what I thought would would occur. As a result, the first words Dirty heard from his mommy on the outs were “Huh. Another boy.”

God/the universe/whatever absolutely knew what they were doing when the plan was made for me to be a boy mom. I can’t braid hair, I like things that are fast and loud, my sense of humor is perpetually stuck at 14 year old boy, I curse,  and I handle other’s people’s emotions like shit.

Also, I’m not super feminine. There was a minute when the director of Youth and Family, Ralph, was worried that the dads we worked with were surrounded by only estrogen. “We don’t have any guys working in Redding except for Crystal.” Maybe it was intended to be offensive. It wasn’t.

So, yea. Destined to be a boy mom. Put Danny in a Carhartt coat, put Dirty in Danny’s last Carhartt coat, turn them loose, and watch them grow and explore. Enjoy every random or filthy thing they do. Watch them as they learn how things work by trial and error. Spend a summer listening to frequent statements of “deez nutz” followed by crackling voice giggles. Every little experience building on the next until they become the profoundly amazing young men that they are today. I wouldn’t change it for the world.

As I take a bran flake out of my sports bra when I, in fact, have not eaten bran flakes today; I recognize that it may not have gone so well if I’d been charged with raising a girl. Kudos to those who raise warrior princesses. They truly are lucky to have you to guide them into a futures of strength and fiery spirits. They’re especially lucky to have you if you can do that AND braid hair or do the make-up thing. Everything I know about eye shadow I learned from South Park when Cartman was a lady wrestler.

As for us boy moms; it’s a special club. Hit us up if you need any advice on how to locate and eradicate smells. Or if you want some reassurance that the weird shoulder bump thing they do is probably them showing boy affection. Just don’t be surprised when we snicker if anyone says “balls.”

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Blogolicious Personal Growth (or not) Stories about my fam

Say Neigh to Bad Hair Days

Dead protein. That’s all that hair is. But we still make a pretty big deal about it.

I managed to make it 45 years without being self conscious about my hair. Growing up with a hairdresser mom gives lots of opportunity to try different hair. Red hair is the only one that I would absolutely not revisit. (If you hear me saying I’m thinking of dying my hair red, know that I am trying to communicate with you in code.)And of course said hair dresser mom always complimented my hair. So imagine my shock when this happened…

We were on a family vacation to Cabo. I did not wish to put even the slightest amount of effort in to my hair. Beaches in Mexico are market places for many a thing. I hadn’t really planned ahead for such parenting conversations such as “hey, uh,…yea….so we’re clear,…please don’t buy cocaine from well-dressed gentlemen walking up and down the beach lightly tapping their noses.” Over the years, I’ve covered “drug are bad” speeches, but the increased accessibility demanded booster informative lectures.

In betwixt cocaine dealers and sellers of blankets and hats are women who will braid your hair where you sit. To be clear, my intent was not a head of gray box braids or corn rows. I was after just braiding my bangs out of my face. Like some of my co-workers can pull off by themselves for a day of work. Though I’m raised by a skilled hairdresser, I do not possess any such ability.

I chose a kindly looking woman who was even older than me. She said $5 would meet the needs. I eagerly took my wallet out of my bikini (bwah ha)  to pay her. She started her task. She sprayed and twisted over and over. Language barrier didn’t prevent me from knowing that she was frustrated with my tresses. She tried to make some small talk as she worked. Her English was better than my Spanish which really isn’t a compliment to either of us.

As I sat, I continued to watch the beach happenings. In addition to buying cocaine and silver, a person could pay for a horseback ride on the beach. Because of this activity, my children, whose Spanish is much better than mine taught me the Spanish word for horse. Had that not happened earlier that day, I may have continued through my life with the misguided belief that my hair is fine.

But noooooo.

Woman with skill and patience continued her work. She pointed to my hair and said my newly acquired Spanish word “cabello.” She smiled. I don’t know that she meant to burn me or give those close to me a reason to sass me for years to come but she did. She’s not wrong. My hair is coarse. It was a moment of hair enlightening that’s provided plenty of material for such gags as “why the long face?” and questions about if I use a curry comb.

The horse hair has been cut short again. I’m trying to grow out the dark part. If history is any indicator, it’ll change again. It’s hair. That’s what it’s built for. I’ve heard a couple “you’re brave” which may be another way of saying “eeeessh.” But just to be clear; I have not rescued a kitten from a burning building. I cut my hair. It’s hair. Trust me, try what you like with your and know that it’ll come back.

PS if you’re really my friend, you’ll stop me from anymore attempts at a perm. A perm of gray horse hair? No matter what I’d try; imma be still looking like a Golden Girl.  Thanks in advance for your cooperation.

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Stories about my fam

Dad

“Cow shit I know?” That was a classic #dadjoke of my childhood. It was a spin on “How should I know?” and got laughs every time it was deployed. But being dad hilarious isn’t all that he brings to the table.

He’s always worked incredibly hard. He’s had other endeavors throughout his career, but the one was spanned my childhood and beyond was that of dirt trucking owner. Summers were busy, up and gone early. I was able to go with a few times. The 80’s were the good old days when children could go out on road construction jobs. I remember that he’d be as excited as my dad gets to have someone along who could load a chip with dip. That’s not really something one should do when driving an 18 wheeler. My keep was earned by putting Frito bean dip on chips and passing them along. To this day, for me fresh asphalt is the smell of contentment.

It was important to him that those in his circle work hard too. This doesn’t mean that I did work hard as a child, not a fucking bit. At one point, my room was so messy it required cleaning via rake. But his efforts to instill work ethic were important to him nonetheless. He’d very consistently tell me “get in around those lug nuts real good” whenever we’d make some attempt to help wash trucks. If you’ve seen my attempts to wash my car, you’d know that us washing was about me learning instead of about me actually being helpful.

He and my mom have been self-employed as long as I can remember. I think it taught me to appreciate things that simply don’t exist when you own your own businesses like, paid vacation, sick leave, unions etc.

He’s fiercely attached to continuing to work hard. He had a lil surgery a couple years ago in his late 70’s. I went to see them at the hospital. He was wearing “fall risk” bracelet. The kind of thing that tells the staff, “this one could hit the deck, be careful.”

I was confused, “Well, they asked me if I’ve fallen recently. I have.”

“Uh,…you had climbed up on a tractor tire and fell off. I’m pretty sure that’s not what they mean.” Septaugenarians aren’t supposed to shimmy up the sides of tractors. They just aren’t. But that doesn’t stop my dad.

He’s strong willed, and able to defend his position on a subject with great verbal sparring. This may or may not be have been the foundation for the skill set I’ve developed; if my work peers and I were the Spice Girls, I’d definitely be “Bitchy Spice.” Not that he (or I) look for arguments, but should they come our way, we’re ready.

My dad’s values are on lock. Remember that he’s where I learned the most important thing any adult can know; all we HAVE to do is eat and shit. Everything else is our choice. I’m pretty sure my dad isn’t a closet social worker. Buuuuuttt, if that statement doesn’t embody the SW value of “client right to self-determination,” I don’t know what does. He has high standards for himself, and high expectations of others.

He’s smart AF. Sometimes it’s fun to just hit him with some complex math just so he can impress with brain power. Need to know how to get somewhere in a place he hasn’t been for 30 years? He’ll give you spot on directions about taking “the” whatever highway to “the” other whatever highway (City people and former city people always say “the” before a highway name/number. It’s science. Try it.)

Fresh out of high school, he moved from Minnesota to southern California. He was a successful business owner there. We vacationed at good ol’ Whiskeytown Lake. Always thinking about the next level-up, he wanted to raise my brother and I here, out of the city. While I selfishly think that was a good choice, I also know that had they not made that move, they’d have done their best to have us have an equally but different kind of wonderful life in So Cal too.

My dad is 81 now. Healthy as they come. He’s got no problem driving cross-country is a motor home. He’s likely scheming his next venture as I type this.

I’m incredibly thankful for all that he’s instilled. I no longer have to clean my room with a rake. I’m mindful of thermostat settings and open doors. I know how to drive a stick shift. And I know not to take things for granted. I love you, Dad. Thank you!