| Dear God, As you know,there is nothing “normal”about us. We don’t have a typical army job where we are stationed somewhere and then move every few years. We are an army reserve family,the red headed stepchild of the army. And for the past four years we have moved where the jobs (missions) are located. We don’t live on base and make a bunch of friends. We tend to be a little more isolated. So I can’t compare myself fully to my army-wife counterparts. The only thing I share with them is that my husband also serves and has been deployed several times. I understand their plight,their worries,their exhaustion…but little else. I have never technically PCS’d. I’ve packed and hired movers. I’ve been the CEO of this household. Remember when the economy went into the crapper 5 years ago,and Craig worked for one of the largest banking firms in the country? Remember how we found ourselves looking at alternatives to making a living for our family? As you know,I wrote about all of this in excruciating detail back then,which of course coincided with my postpartum depression after Elsa’s birth–NOT a shining moment for me personally. Well,he moved to GA,and one year later,my daughter and I moved to be with him…with the prospect of more positions like these in our future. Cut to the future. Three years later,and two moves,we find ourselves in AL. And other than the tornados,I actually like it here. On a side note,thank you for sparing our home during last year’s epic storms. If you recall,I huddled in the closet with both children clutched to my breast,closed my eyes and spoke your name many times. I digress,the weather is great,the people are friendly and I finally know my way around the city. I’ve even become used to the south and all of its intricacies/oddities. You know what I’m talking about there,don’t you? I mean,really with all the fried food and weird racial tension? Anyhow,now that I’ve become somewhat comfortable,it is time yet again to look where we are headed. At this point I have no idea where this is. This has become difficult for us to say the least. Craig’s options are limited. One: deployment…ugh. That sounds terrible for so many reasons,and you know how I get when I’m alone for too long…we won’t go into that here. Two: find a job here. That’s easier said than done. Three: Go back to VT. No way in hell. It’s true. It is beautiful there,but you and I both know how I like it hot…and it’s way too cold there,and I’m not up for moving across the country AGAIN unless it’s for good. Last,but certainly not least…Four: Winning the HGTV Dream Home. Now I know I shouldn’t get my hopes up,but I feel fairly certain that I could win this. 1 in 4 billion are really good odds to me at this point,and let’s face it,this letter to you would be moot. Hence this note to you…and really to anyone who can identify in ANY way,shape,or form with our situation. I am praying for a decent outcome…nothing perfect. I don’t expect that. I don’t expect a lot of things at this point…but if you could give me a shout when you’re not busy taking care of the sick and wounded,I’d appreciate it. Your humble servant, Nissa I haven’t posted in a long time. I assume it’s because I have had too much going on in my little brain to try to put it all down in a meaningful way. This past year has been an interesting one…we’ve had a few friends pass as well as friend’s parents. And all of that has put a damper on what has been a pretty mellow year––aside from a few tornadoes of course. I miss them, my friends, not the tornadoes; and I can’t help but to think of their families this time of year and how difficult it must be to see joy in any of the festivities. Yet even while I think of my friends and their families, I tend to mire in my own b.s., which makes me feel sort of pathetic because I don’t have much to complain about. I really don’t. Anything I am dealing with pales in comparison to those of you who are dealing with sick children or parents…so I won’t use this forum as a platform to complain about anything as mundane as my own life. Well, maybe just a little. Craig continues to do well in the army and now we’re awaiting word as to what we’ll be doing next summer,which always brings an uncomfortable amount of anxiety my way. Unlike the majority of our friends, my kids won’t grow up in the same house they were born in. Instead, we’ll be moving to and fro, like a ship in an unrelenting sea. Some days I’m okay with this lot, while there are others where I’m less secure about that fact. You see, when we married, 14 years ago, he was merely a Reservist with a “regular”job. But eight years ago, when the war in Iraq started, he began to get deployed, something that was very new to me…not to him certainly, but to me. Now it seems to be old hat. And I’m, for lack of better words,used to it. But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. Or does it? My army wife friends would tell me to “suck it up,” and rightly so,as that’s what I’d tell them to do as well. But my non army wife friends always feel sorry for me, and say things like, ”I don’t know how you do it,” which is just an annoying way of saying, ”I’d NEVER do that.” Oddly enough,neither one of these sentiments is going to work for me. I think I am looking at something in the middle. I don’t know what that saying is, but something in the middle. This next year I am going to focus on looking at things less in the middle. Words like ”decisive” and ”definitive” will be incorporated into my vocabulary. This goes against my better judgment as I tend to be a little dramatic about all things. But I will do my best to more ”kick-ass” and less ”ass-kicked” in my near future. Until then, I want to wish you all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year. May the remainder of your winter months be filled with adventure or enlightenment…whichever life has set out for you. Sometimes both. But I hope for your sake, it’s somewhere in the middle. When I was a senior in high school,before school’s end,everyone had to go talk to his or her ”guidance counselor”. I distinctly remember him asking me what I wanted to do with my life. As he well knew, I had not applied to a single college. And as a second Ferguson to leave the ranks of Wasson High School, he knew that I wouldn’t be applying any time soon. The Ferguson kids didn’t do that. We didn’t come from the traditional American family. At the time,this was something I was so proud of. We were the rebels. My father the artist, and my mother, floating like a butterfly in and out of contract jobs was our way of life. We never had money. And my father wasn’t one to discuss the trappings of the liberal education. It was a place where Americans’brains go to die. It was a place where your intellect would sooner leave your conscience than become something more worthy of your community. No, the message in our house was ”work hard, but not too hard.” Enjoy life. Something will come your way to sustain you. I sat across my counselor and said, with all sincerity, ”I don’t know. But I want to be something great.” He scoffed. ”Well, that’s nice,but not realistic.” I sat there,dismayed actually. I wanted to hear something back with more of a sales approach. He could’ve lied. I would’ve preferred it. Here I am nearly 20 years later. My daughter sits across from me,covered in Crayola markers, intent on creating some serious art all while singing a song about tooting into the whicker chair she sits upon. I know what you’re thinking, she comes from a long line of classy. When I belch as hard as I can, my son will yell, ”Ma!” and in his best 18 month old grammar, ”Ewww.” This of course makes my daughter and I laugh our butts off. These are the things that we do when daddy’s gone at work. Much to his dismay of course. He truly is from a long line of classy, and rules. The midwesterner in him is intent, at all times, on ensuring no one gets hurt, or makes lewd noises with their bodies…not that he is perfect by any means. I should at least preface this little post with that tidbit. He’s as much a “guy” as they come. All stinky and mannish. But there’s always that double standard. But let’s face it, our differences go far beyond the belching and cursing. Did I mention the cursing? Yeah. I do that too. I try not to do it front of the kids of course. I’m not a redneck. But I have slipped a few “shit”moments into the universe, and only once has my daughter ratted me out to daddy about it. Thank God. However, Craig and I differ on larger issues. Like politics. We got into it the other day over the Occupy Wall Street movement. He was making fun of it and I was defending it to the core. Of course. I’m a liberal through and through. And I’m proud of it. And he’s conservative…and just as proud. While we were arguing, and it was getting more and more heated, I really wanted to smack him one. But instead, we rattled down the road in our Volvo, while our children listened intently to our stupid conversation. My daughter finally said, ”Hey you two! No more fighting!” And Craig said, ”We aren’t fighting honey. Your mom just can’t make an informed opinion about her “cause”.” I shot a look at him that could’ve killed, and she said, ”If I have to come up there!” Which made us both laugh, and stopped our arguing. Yet here I sit, writing this nonsense, about nothing that anyone really cares about, and that’s okay;because I’m practicing you see. For something bigger. Something great. During Fall Break my husband and two kids traveled to Destin, Florida to take in the beautiful weather and spend some quality time on the beach. After spending an entire day packing and cleaning,it was time to hit the road. A drive to Destin from Huntsville is 7 hours,give or take. But I was ready. I had the snacks, the movies, the whole nine yards. We were ready to go. After strapping a reluctant Gunnar into the car, we started a movie. My daughter tells me she wants to watch ”The Little Mermaid,” but I know that won’t last. Ten minutes into the movie, she’s asking me to put in “Chicken Little”. I sigh a little sigh, and attempt my first of many backseat maneuvers to change out the disc. Done. Hours later,the kids are asleep and we’re pushing through to get to our destination before midnight. My husband and I laugh at all of the odd sights in the south. The giant peach water tower in Clanton, AL that looks like a huge,glowing ass from the highway…especially when it’s all lit up––which they do on purpose. Then we laugh at all the tiny towns that have one company that sustains them,like Dongwon. That’s my husband’s personal favorite. ”Hey honey,want to work at DONGWON? Then we quiz one another on what we think one does at Dongwon. Without Googling it,he nails it. Automotive parts. I’m terrible at those games. They have a sad little picnic table outside and it’s nearly 11pm, and the parking lot is full. 3rd shift, I think. Bummer. But hey,folks have to work! So there you have it…Dongwon. Okay,admittedly,it is funny to say over and over again. We stop at this gas station in the middle of nowhere, probably the last one before we start heading over the water, and we try to accomplish pee breaks without waking the kids. Well,the blaze of white neon cascading over the hood of the car woke them up almost instantly,so we decide to take turns heading into the station. Gunnar squints painfully in his carseat as if to say, ”Really? Really? Damn it’s bright.” I take him out of the car to change his diaper on the tail-gait while a middle-aged woman, skin leathered from the sun, sits in her beat up Saturn to smoke her cigarettes. A young man gets out and disappears into the dark. Her window is rolled all the way down, and the tin sound of Keith Urban escapes clumsily from the car’s old speakers. I don’t mind the Keith Urban part…but I am wondering where on earth the young man went who so quickly exited the car. It quickly comes to mind that they are locals. And we don’t belong here. Hmmm. Where did that kid go? I think to myself. Suddenly from behind, another car breaches the lot, this time it’s full of young black men with really long do-rags adorning their pubescent heads. One of the men looks at me and smiles wide while taking a long draw on what appears to be a Swisher Sweet cigar. It’s cheap and it smells horrid. I don’t know what they’re up to, but just like the woman next to us, I’m assuming no good. I look anxiously into the store to see where my husband is, but he’s not in sight. I’m not too worried…you just get that feeling that you’re not in the right place at the right time,you know? A blonde woman swings the door open and heads toward her car, where I notice her husband has been protectively watching our vehicle. She adjusts something for one of her kids in the backseat and he motions her to get going. Just then, Craig appears. Red Bull in hand, he’s ready to go. We laugh about it on the way out of the parking lot because the south can be such a weird place. It’s poor. So poor. And regardless of race, you could be on the losing end of a mugging. This is where our minds wander as we await one another at creepy gas stations in the middle of nowhere, but truth be told…no one did a damn thing. We survived. And we made it to our destination without a scratch. ‘I’m losing this battle.’ This is what I thought to myself while my daughter lost her grip on reality, and my toddler was screaming ”mommy” from his crib. The two of them crying with such force literally made my ears ring and I wanted to retreat somewhere quiet. Somewhere else. Of course there was no retreating to be done. Instead I battled it out with the oldest in the hopes that the baby would give up his fight and go to sleep. My bet paid off. As he drifted into slumber,my daughter lay on my bed with tear stained cheeks, still pleading for ice cream. “PLEEEEASE MOMMY!” I shot daggers at her with my eyes and said, ”No,” for the 40th time. I told her it was best to let me cool off before continuing her begging. She looked at me with agreement and let me get to my shower. I stood there in the hot water thinking about the morning. What had I done wrong? We went to the playground topped off with lunch at Chick Fil A and yet more germ-infested playground time there. How do these outings turn into such drama-fests at the end? It’s a crapshoot really. I mean, sometimes things go so well that I wonder what happened and who my angelic children are. And today, like most days, I look at my girl with complete confusion. Really? You’re going to talk to me like that? And then ask for ice cream? Now, I know my daughter has little reasoning abilities and is only beginning to understand that she can manipulate me with kindness to get her way, but sometimes I just don’t get what happens between the hours of ’I'm awake’ and ’Go the frick to bed’. I feel like it’s a blur. And I would LOVE to go an entire day without yelling at her. I’ve tried. I’ve even gone so far as to plead with her…but my tactics have yet to be 100% successful. I’d continue writing this blog and get my venting completely out, but she just informed me that she dipped her brother’s toothbrush in the toilet. I have to look at the bright side, at least she didn’t flush it. I have been doing a lot of soul searching as of late…hence the absence of any writing. I’ve been considering writing a book. Yes,a book. But this would entail me having some kind of creative drive,which lately I don’t seem to possess. My daughter, who will be four in September is on track to completing her first total mommy take down. And I just can’t let her do it…just yet. For the past five days she has done her best to use all of the foul language she knows,which consists of ”God dangit,” ”Hell,” and ”Shut your mouth,” all things that she knows will set me into mommy orbit. She has also given into tantrums that have been epic in proportion. The odd thing is that she would never do this in front of anyone but me,which has its positives. Right? Today I reached a low. Not an all-time low,because I really didn’t give a shit what anyone thought of me,but the effort was exhausting. While shopping for school supplies at Target,my daughter asked for a toy. I told her no and she abruptly threw her flip flops into the children’s clothing section. This diversion allowed her to run at full speed through the shopping complex while screaming “I don’t love you!”at the top of her lungs. As I write this I am smiling. I suddenly find this so damn funny. I quickly took Gunnar out of the cart,and ran after her…as fast as I could with a 25lb toddler in my arms. When I got to her,an elderly woman decked out in her fuschia-flowered blouse scowled at both my child and myself with disgust. Clearly my daughter was the product of poor parenting. Sigh. I grabbed my possessed daughter and escorted her to where her shoes had been tossed. We left the store with nothing. Nothing. Wait,I left with a headache. She left with nothing. When we reached the house,and I had unlatched her seatbelt,she climbed down from her seat and ran down the sidewalk in the scorching Alabama sunshine. She yelled,“I am NEVER coming back!”Gunnar and I walked slowly down the street to where she was again removing the flip flops to drop them into the street. Once she had done so,she immediately began to cry that her feet were too hot and that she was going to burn up! Sigh. After the longest time-out in Weisser history I decided that I too needed one. I really just craved a moment to myself. I’m not sure what I’d do in that time. Most likely I’d laugh uncontrollably until I’d cry,but I could just take a nap…sleep it all away. I understand that this is all developmental and that “it’ll pass,”but it really sucks. The only thing I do know…is that I have become that mother that loses it in public…not enough to call social services over,but enough to go,“Oh my God…is she okay?”and that flip flops are forever banned from outings. I am a yeller,from a long line of yellers. We yell,we holler,we yelp. It’s the way of my people. I’m married of course to a non-yeller. They don’t holler. They don’t yelp. They are stoic people. When my oldest acts out I am the first to holler one of my many yelps in her direction. ”Knock it off,”or “Are you kidding me with this?”“What are you doing? And don’t tell me ‘nothing!’”or my favorite,“Seriously?!”This is just a small sample of my sayings,which my daughter has picked up on and is now trying to use on her little brother. When he does something to annoy her,she’ll say,“Are you serious,Gunnar?”and his 13 month old face will look at hers in such puzzlement. I suppose it’s the same look on my girl’s face when I say something to her. Yes,there is this beast inside me that I have been trying to calm since having children. And mind you,I am sure it was there before,but the irritation I have toward my daughter’s insulants can get the best of me. I throw a mommy tantrum if you will. As most of you know,I struggled with why on earth I was spanking her when it was indeed sending the most ridiculous message. It sounded something like,“We don’t hit!”all while lending my hand to her backside…which did nothing on a physical level either I might add. She simply begged for me to “bring it on.” As she nears the age of 4,I have noticed a decline in her wild tantrums,which has been a relief. After having no tantrums or outbursts in more than three weeks,she managed to save them all up for a major meltdown on Sunday morning. This was most unfortunate as I had both her and her brother in the car and we were making our way to get donuts for daddy. I had nothing,but the best intentions…get the kids out of the house so he can sleep,and supply him with some strong Starbucks and chocolate covered pastries. All good things. As we sat in line at Starbucks,my girl started kicking the console. I turned to tell her to stop and she replied,“I will not! I will punch my brother!”I said,“You’d better not Elsa! I am going to give you a time-out as soon as we’re out of this line!”I pointed furiously at a parking lot near the coffee joint in an effort to stifle her plans. It didn’t work. Instead,she hit her brother square in the nose at what appeared to be at about 50% her strength. He looked so sad. More than just physically hurt,he just looked at her with such disappointment. I immediately saw red. ”Keep your hands to yourself!”I yelled. Looking for an exit,I realized I was stuck in goddamn line and would be going nowhere. To make matters worse,the people screwed up my order…two black coffees and couldn’t figure out what I wanted. I was trying to be polite while threatening my daughter in the backseat with everything and anything I could take away from her. She was so wound up she didn’t care. She hit her brother again. I hollered through the window at the cashier to keep the change and sped off. Suddenly silent,my daughter realized we weren’t going anywhere good. “Where are we goin’mama?” Without saying a word,I pulled into the parking lot of,fittingly,a desolate church. I pulled her from the backseat and plopped her butt on the pavement. It was only 8am,but the Alabama heat was already palpable. ”Sit down. And don’t move!”She groveled for a few moments before conceding that I had won this battle. She would get no TV for the day and she understood that there were consequences to her actions. The ride home was silent and long. My hubby thought that something had happened to us it had taken so long…and I was still steaming. Still steaming. He reminded me that I had already disciplined her and that I needed to let it go,but I couldn’t stop lecturing her. Oh how I struggle with my actions. I wish that I could have that calm and collected personality that just lets it all go,but I obviously don’t. I have decided that motherhood is a very lonely journey and we are our worst judges and enemies. I know that this is all but a speck of time in my life,but it feels so trying. I know that one day,maybe even tomorrow,I will look back with great sentiment on my kids as they were small,but today I feel like I am under constant test and scrutiny,from the lot. I think it’s time to tame this beast…my inner tiger. It’s time to start exploring what that means to me and how to find solace as a mom. I’m not alone. Am I? There’s a book here that hasn’t been written. I just know it. As most of you know,April was a tough month for Alabama (and other southern states),as it appears May is for Missouri. The tornados have been in full force,and every thunderstorm reminds me to keep my eye on the sky and an ear peeled for the ever-intrusive tornado sirens. You would think that after all of that,I would’ve written something. But I didn’t. I haven’t been writing–at all. And I really don’t know why. Am I depressed? Shockingly,no. Am I tired? That’s a given,but not enough to keep me from bad TV or the vapid escape of Facebook. Am I bored? Hmmm. Perhaps the answer is yes? I began reading Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project and it has at least inspired me to get off my ass and do something–something about this writing business. The sirens started that April morning at 6am. My husband was getting ready for work when he leaned my way to let me know that they were going off. I begrudgingly got my weary-self out of bed,turned on the coffee maker,and headed quickly up the stairs towards the kid’s rooms where my daughter was still snuggled beneath her pink and yellow comforter,unaware of the siren in the near distance. I walked first into my son’s room where he stood in his crib,jumping up and down,smiling ear to ear. ”Momma. Momma,”he said repeatedly. I grabbed some clothes for him,and swiftly headed across the hall to haul Miss Elsa out of bed. “Let’s go,”I said sternly. “But I’m tired,”she whined while making me physically pull her from her slumber. “I know baby,but the tornado sirens are going off and we need to get to the closet downstairs.” This seemed to get her attention and she finally used her legs to move herself in that direction. The sirens passed and the crisis seemed to be over for the time being. Once caffeine had been employed in my daily routine and my children had been clothed and fed,the day seemed to be going as any other–that is until the second,third and fourth sirens went off. While my daughter played upstairs my son and I remained downstairs where I was glued to the weather on TV. Around 11am they told us that our area was directly in the path of a large tornado and we should take cover. I picked up my son,headed toward the stairs and called for Elsa to come down. “Let’s go!”I yelled up the stairs. “Why?”she asked quizzically as she descended the steps with her horses in tow. Suddenly the wind picked up and the lights began to flicker. All of the power went out in an instant and the wind shifted outside. There was a brief,eery silence that filled my ears…if only for a moment…and I knew something was afoot. I jumped two stairs with Gunnar hiked under my arm and grabbed El with my other. ”Mommy!”she yelled. With both children in my arms,I hesitated for only a moment to look at the front door. The inside of my home felt suddenly pressurized,and I thought that the windows and door were going to implode upon us. Without further delay or explanation we headed into the master bedroom closet. Sitting there in the dark with my kids in my lap,the wind howled ferociously outside and no one moved. No one breathed. We just waited. After a couple of minutes I got up to see what was going on outside. Our rod iron porch set moved with such ease on the back porch that I thought it may spear the glass of my backdoor. My daughter’s baby-pool levitated into the bruised sky,leaving no trace of its existence. Shit,I thought. This is insane. I called my husband from the closet and let him know that our neighborhood was under siege. Because he works in a vault,he had no idea what was going on outside,and his work area hadn’t really been hit,so he couldn’t identify. By the time the storm had passed,it was 2pm…and we still had no power. The three of us sat in the living room and watched as colorful bolts of lightning criss crossed their way across the afternoon sky. I was counting down the minutes until my hubby could get home. Just as he did,around 4:30pm,we both watched as a giant funnel cloud,at least a mile-wide,swept its way across the swirling sky. ”Let’s go!”I called out and we all headed once more into our closet. The weather radio alerted us again and again to the many tornados that had been reported. The hail beat down from the heavens as a tornado warning,louder than any siren could ever attempt to do–and we remained in our candle-lit closet. By the next morning,we still had no power and no idea as to what had happened to the region. I climbed into my car with the kids,expecting to take my daughter to school when I heard about the devastation that had happened to Tuscaloosa and our own neck of the woods,Harvest. Three miles from our house is the ghost of a neighborhood. Trees,cars,and homes were turned to mere elements when Mother Nature left us in her wake. I was astonished. And scared. I quickly realized how close to disaster we had been,and how lucky I was to have my entire family with me…alive and well. Others were not so fortunate. And my heart goes out to them as they begin rebuilding not only their homes,but their lives. Every time I feel I’m a perfect fit for my stay-at-home-mom job,life pulls me in a different direction. This past week I have been struggling to remember who the hell I am. For most of my life I’ve been able to define myself either through school or my work,but now that I’m at home with wee-ones,I’m finding it difficult to connect to myself. That sounds strange right? Someone who is at home for the entire day and has little interaction with others is struggling to find themselves. Hmmm. Sounds like some bullshit,I know,but I’m starting to think it’s me. Most of you who know me well would probably second that emotion. Tonight I feel at war with my inner mommy and my intellectual self. Mostly because I have no freaking clue where the latter has gone. My husband even mentioned that my vocabulary was lacking recently,which he said in jest,but there was a little truth in it. I mean…my Southernese does come out every once in a while. I can’t help myself! And yes,contrary to what he may believe,“junkin’”is a word. For instance,“Elsa,put your toys away. You’re junkin’up my living room.”See? It is a word. It works. Oye. He may be right. I may be losing it. But I digress,after folding a mountain of children’s clothing I could hear my son’s raspy cough echoing in the monitor. Sigh. Let’s hope this isn’t another fucking cold. And forgive my expletives,but I feel I’ve earned them this past two weeks,so I’m going to use them liberally. Just look away if you can’t stomach them. But stay with me…I went up to his room to get his humidifier going and tuck him in,and he was so cute,sucking his thumb like crazy. I snuck out and stepped across the hall to my girl’s room and I just want to crawl in bed with her. I don’t know why,but she makes me feel like everything is going to work out. Life is going to be okay. She is such a part of me. I can’t help but cozy up to her and breathe in everything that she is. It’s intoxicating. This piece of me––lying there in perfect rest. I don’t know,this is my least cohesive thought or piece of writing I’ve done in a while,but I am so close to finding my Nissa-nervana…but yet so far away. I know it’ll get easier at some point. I know. Don’t tell me. A little over a month ago we put our three year old in a Taekwondo class,which meets three days a week. Considering the fact that our daughter was walking around her playroom kicking and punching her stuffed animals followed by an audible “hi ya!”we figured it was time to do something about it. And she loves it. Especially her little Tiger Cub pledge that she had to remember for her first test. ”I promise to use Taekwondo,in class,to escape from strangers. I promise not to use Taekwondo,for trouble!”So super cute. Watching her say that in the best 3 year old diction possible is the most adorable thing I’ve witnessed to date. That being said,I am thrilled that she’s learning to stay away from strangers and to be a tough girl. The facility we take her to mentioned that a parent can take classes free of charge for an entire year,so I decided to take the plunge and sign up. Ah yes…35 years old and starting a martial art. It sounded sketchy to me too. A week later,I showed up to my first “adult”class. As I pulled back the door,a waft of warm mats and feet hit me in the face. Three pimply-faced young men greeted me as I entered the studio. ”Hi. Is this the adult class?” I asked. “Yes ma’am,”said the tall gangly one. Oh God,I thought. Ma’am? That makes me feel so freaking old! I placed my belongings near the door,just in case I had to escape early,but against my better judgment,I stepped onto the mat to await my workout. The instructor emerged from the bathroom,and to my surprise,it was my daughter’s teacher. Puzzled,he looked at me and said, ”Mrs. Weisser?” “Yes. I’m. Um. Here for the class?”I replied with the same confusion. A wide smile carved its way across his face as he welcomed me in. I have never taken a class in martial arts before,so this entire endeavor was an oddity to me. The strict nature of it all is really against my non-conformist personality. But I really love a challenge,so I dedicated myself to opening up my mind to something new. I was terrified. I believe our instructor wanted to make an example of his toughness by making the class that day––extra difficult. And it was. Push-ups galore followed by squats and kicks made me very sore…and unsure of why I chose to take the class. In Taekwondo leadership is marked by experience,not age. So I was stuck in the back of the class to watch the kids in front of me kick ass. It was odd. But I was thankful to be in the back––seeing that I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. My instructor is a sweet,young man. I believe he’s 22. And the young boys in the class absolutely adore him. He tells them stories of his experiences with martial arts and how hard it was for him “back in the day”when you’d go home with broken bones…“They don’t let you do that anymore,”he says. ”That’s how it was for me though,”as if he is a tougher person for it. The young men are impressed and hang on every line. They even throw in their own stories of male-hormone-driven stunts and I yawn internally. Not impressed. But I pretend to be very interested. I really just want to learn and do well. I’m not comfortable here yet to be telling tales are hearing them. I digress. After my first few classes,I finally meet actual adults. Another mom is in my class. She’s my age,but has been doing this a couple of years. I revere her dedication to something I haven’t truly decided is for me yet. And she helps me in class when I screw up…which is often. There are many men,40 and above who are Level 2 black belts that truly impress me and they’re equally has helpful. Even though I’m a novice,I’m starting to like it. I’ve even asked the kids to stop calling me ma’am in class and they think I’m funny. But funny is taking my first test last week. It was really terrifying. The severity of it all. It’s so formal. All the “yes sirs”and running to your place and doing your forms correctly for a panel of judges. But my daughter watched from the sidelines and kept giving me a thumbs-up. She was so proud of her mom. I know that even if I wanted to quit now,I couldn’t. She thinks it’s “so awesome.”Oh dear. | |
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