Spar Wars

There are a lot of things I wish I had learned to do as a kid. Play piano. Sing on key. The butterfly stroke. Math.

But most of all, I wish I had learned some sort of self-defense.

As many parents do, I've started living vicariously through my kids – which is why I signed them up for a martial arts class. I want them to have what I never did... the ability to kick someone's ass, or at least defend their own, should a bully ever push them around on the playground or try to steal their lunch. (Which truth be told, isn't that big of a problem as they usually bring half of it home uneaten anyway.)

So...we enrolled the boys in a neighborhood Ju Jitsu class. It's held in a small boxing studio where people go to work out and actually work out – not just prance around in their designer yoga clothes. I'd join myself if I hadn't recently purchased a bunch of really cute Lululemon tops.

My boys are the youngest kids in class by at least two years. My little one looks like an Ewok next to some of the older and much bigger kids. The grown-ups who stand around throwing punches often stop to watch the little kids practicing...always smiling sweetly when my little guys take to the mat. (They obviously have no idea the pain a four-and-a-half-year-old and his older brother are willing to inflict upon each other even in public, civilized places.)

Their teacher, Coach Mack, has a wealth of accomplishments under his black belt. Make that four black bets in Karate and one more in talking smack. He displays the kind of tough, gentle guidance you want in a coach. He expects the kids to listen, look him in the eye and behave. He demands and receives respect, and so naturally, I am thinking about asking him to move in with us. He teaches by example, making minced meat out of his assistant coach much to my boys' amusement. Yet when Coach Mack's daughter takes the mat opposite him, he never takes her down without giving her a little kiss first. This man, who is going to teach my kids how to kill people using only their earlobes, tugs at my heartstrings.

The class is 45 minutes of running, jumping jacks, somersaults, snake escapes, crab crawls, spinning crabs, jumping push-ups, more running and endless drills. I watch the whole thing with envy and consider taking an adult class myself, all the while searching for a chair to sit down in because I'm already tired of standing. The drills are relentless and would send most grown-ups home to bed for the week. Of course it sends my boys running out the door and begging to go onto another activity - family swim. Luckily the adrenaline wears off quickly and by the time dinner is ready 30 minutes later they are falling asleep in their corn.

At the end of class the students spend 15 minutes sparring. They are paired up with equally matched partners. My boys, eager to show the older kids what they are made of, proudly take their places on the mat...holding hands.

And for the first time in two hours, I begin to question my ability to parent.

My oldest son, who, like his mommy, enjoys spending afternoons watching Les Miserables (with Alfie Boe as Jean Valjean of course...do you blame him?) channels his inner Terminator. His baby brother squares his adorable little jaw, gets into position and tries hard not to cry. Which this week, he does.

My heart breaks and swells at the same time. My five-year old knows his stuff. He's using all the moves he just learned and showing no mercy. But seeing my younger son struggle to get out from under him kills me. My good friend Panic moves in and makes herself comfortable in my stomach. What was I thinking signing him up for a class where he has to spar against his big brother like an illegal dog fight? I suddenly feel like Michael Vick's less reasonable little sister. My baby, who was born a month early and already endured one fight for his life shouldn't be battling like this. I hold back tears as I watch them tough it out. I am a mess. A horrible parent. I am certain that Joan Crawford is going to call DCFS on me.

But then my youngest, somehow, wrangles himself out and manages to get a leg up for a moment. And in that brief moment he smiles. Triumph. Not total triumph as his brother takes him down again pretty fast, but it's a victory nonetheless. I exhale and remind myself that this is a good thing they're learning and that they're doing it in a safe, controlled and respectful environment. It's an important and necessary skill: no different from learning to swim or say "no" when someone offers them a hit on their crack pipe.

I tell myself that my youngest son wants to do this. Partially to make myself feel better and also because it's true. He wants to do everything his older brother does. And when he can't, the look on his face as he watches from the sidelines, is devastating. I tell myself that this is for their benefit. Should someone try to mess with either of them, they won't hesitate to use an arm triangle choke from the guard position. (I pay attention in class too.) It's a skill I, and I'm guessing most people out there, wish they had.

When their turn is up they bow to each other, shake hands, and tug the collars of their now stretched-out Gap T-shirts back into some semblance of a shape. Coach Mack high-fives them both and asks my little one to help him coach the next match - boosting his confidence even higher. And mine.

On the walk home my oldest son is puffed up like a proud peacock. Tiny chest thrust forward. His brother is quiet. I expect him to tell me he's not going back.  And I'm fully prepared to let him quit. I'm not a Tiger Mom. Hell, I wouldn't even be allowed in the den. But he surprises me by saying he's excited for practice next week.

"Mommy," he says in that sweet little voice that still cannot pronounce the letter "R" correctly. "Do you know why I was gooder today than Monday? Because I was scared but I still did it."

And I realize that out of all the things I want for my kids, they already have the most important one. A backbone.

Who needs math when you have that?

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