MAMA: Adventures in Martial Arts and Motherhood

I'm going to jump right to the finale. The moral of this little tale is that doctors don't know anything.  Here is the short version. About three weeks ago I developed an itchy ear problem. I ignored it for awhile but eventually it got too annoying so I walked the two blocks to the lovely urgent care place in my neighborhood. There is never anyone in there so after about ten minutes I was on my way out with some antibiotic drops for an ear infection. Fast forward three days where now not only are my ears itchy but they are now hurting and feel like someone is constantly pouring water into them. Same clinic, different doctor. New prescription, this time for antifungal ear drops. Fast forward one week to where I now have slightly less itchy ears and a very itchy rash on my belly. Same clinic, different doctor. Hmmm, you seem to have an allergic reaction to something. (No shit, lady.) What, well it is hard to tell. You should stop using the drops and go see an ENT doc. Cut to

Tonight I had my annual conversation with one of the Bedford Avenue Jews. If you have been reading this blog for awhile you may remember this from two years ago: http://mamommyarchives.blogspot.com/2012/12/how-athiest-celebrates-holidays.html. But just in case you were not around then, here is how it went tonight: Him: Hello, are you Jewish? Me: No. Well actually my mom was raised Jewish. And my grandmother was Jewish. But no, I do not practice Judiasm. Him: Well actually if your mom is Jewish than you are Jewish. You do not need to practice. Me: Well..ok...my daughter wants to light a menorah. Can I have one of those free ones you are handing out? Him: Sure. You can teach your daughter about it. And so on. Two years ago I was angry and defiant. I took that damn free menorah because I was daring him to say no. I was daring him to call me a Jew so I could angrily say that NO I was most certainly NOT Jewish because I do not believe in God. I do not practice ANY religion. And jus

When I tell you I live in Williamsburg, you probably picture hipsters in skinny jeans and fancy hats pouring out of the L train at midnight. And you would be right. They are wandering down Bedford Ave right now, with their Oslo coffee cups and wire rimmed glasses. Well not now, at 8:30am on a Sunday. Now, they are all asleep. It is the other Williamsburg that is awake this early, the ones with children, the ones who are all bundled up and headed for the playground at 8:00. We have coffee too. Only we made ours at home, in a giant coffeepot that is set to start brewing at 6, and we carry our own reusable mugs because we will need refills. Multiple refills. The hipsters and the mommies are not the only tenants of Williamsburg, Brooklyn. If you go south of Grand Street you will come across Hispanic families who have been in the neighborhood far longer than I have. And if you keep going down Bedford, past Division Ave., you will find yourself in the world of the Hasidim.  The Hasidic f

I am going to tell you a secret.  The name of your school does not matter. The patch you wear on your uniform does not matter. The belt you tie around your waist, the color of your gi, the medals on your wall, none of these things matter.  All that matters is the sweat on the floor. Period. I am not saying that you should not be proud of those things. You earned them and they deserve to be celebrated.  I am not saying that all dojos are the same. They aren't. But none of that matters. What matters is that you did one more pushup that night. When you thought you were done, you did one more.  What matters is that you kept fighting, even though he had you pushed up against the wall and for a moment there you were pretty sure he forgot who you were. He certainly forgot how small you were, yet you kept fighting, or at least you kept your hands up and waited for the bell to ring. You didn't quit. What matters is that you went to class. When you would really rather be on

One afternoon, way back when my daughter was in kindergarten, I found myself at the playground discussing homework with two other moms. At one point in the conversation, one of them, the mother of one of Maya's close friends, made this comment :"I don't care if my child does well in school. I don't care what grades she gets. She learns different from other kids. She has different strengths and I am fine with that." At the time I remember thinking "Well that is fine for you but I have higher expectations for my child. I want her to try her hardest in school. If she does her best and gets B's that is fine. But I want her to try for A's." It is not the actual grades that matter. In fact, I would support a system that did away with letter and number grades in favor of more individual assessments. But numbers on report cards are what we have now. They are what teachers are currently using to tell both me and my child's future teachers how well

Yesterday, while I was putting on my uniform for my 11am BJJ class, I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. After admiring my nice blue gi and making sure my hair was going to stay in place for at least half of class, this thought popped into my head: "What am I doing here?"  Don't get me wrong, I was not unhappy to be at jiu-jitsu. I was not feeling sick, or tired. My neck wasn't sore. In a burst of motivation,  I had even made myself a note that morning about what I was going to work on, which is something I almost never do.  So I was ready to go. Only, the thought was still there. "What am I doing here?" I do not compete in BJJ and do not plan to. I do not care much about belts, and even if I did, promotions at my school are usually a surprise so using them as a goal can be tricky. I have no immediate plans to start teaching jiu-jitsu, so, despite what my tax return might say, my time on the mat cannot really be considered "profes

Yesterday was my daughter's seventh birthday. It also happened to be Election Day which meant instead of going to school, Maya was free to spend the day however she chose.  Here she is around 11am, playing one of the guys in Washington Square Park:  (She took his queen early but then he fought his way back and they settled on a draw.) She ate a park hot dog for lunch. Then she went off to Barnes & Noble with my mom and my aunt, who told her she could pick out anything she wanted. Her evening ended eating cupcakes and watching TV at the grandparents house. It was a great day. Everywhere Maya went yesterday, she brought Julie with her. Julie watched as she studied the chess board, looking for the perfect move. Julie followed her to the store where she ultimately picked out a new book and a nail painting kit. Julie sat on the sofa between grandpa and Maya while she watched Peppa Pig . Here she is. Julie is the American Girl doll that Maya has been a

I don't compete anymore. I am not against competition; on the contrary, I actually think it is a fantastic way for martial artists to challenge themselves. It just isn't for me right now. That being said I do enjoy watching other people do it, so this past weekend I spent a few hours at the NY IBJJF Pro at City College. Here is what I did there: Watched a couple of small black belt men invert upside down and roll around like spiders. They are quite good at this. In fact, one of them actually invented it! Observed Lloyd Irvin being Lloyd Irvin. This included checking his phone a lot and managing to look both bored and intimidating at the same time. Even when his students won (which unfortunately happened frequently), he didn't smile much. His students didn't either. I don't know any of them personally, but they all come across as being not very nice. Perhaps it is just an act, some kind of "game face"? On a similar note, every time one of the Lloyd Irv

Yesterday, while walking up 105th street towards the dojo, I encountered a man. He was middle aged, typically dressed and Hispanic. When I passed him, he stopped, fixed his creepy gaze upon me, produced a half smile/half sneer and muttered "Que linda!" This is not the first compliment I have received from a total stranger. Sometimes they like my shoes, or my shirt, or my hair. I have been called beautiful in multiple languages. Men have also told me to "Have a great day" and to "Put a smile on that face" and numerous other random comments. My response is almost always the same: I smile, say thank you, and move on. There are, of course, much ruder comments that I have heard as well, although thankfully not very often. Comments that involve body parts, sexual acts, and so on. I am fine looking. I am not fishing for compliments, I am happy with the way I look. I have a skinny athletic build and nice hair. I am also short and small breasted. I almost ne

I teach 4 back to back classes on Tuesdays, starting with an adorable big headed three year old named Marcus, and ending with my most advanced 6-8 year olds. Yesterday, about halfway through one of his katas, one of my yellow belt boys took off his glasses, rubbed his eyes and said "I think I have pinkeye." Ok, first of all, no. No you do not have pinkeye. Dude, have you seen pinkeye?? It is not discreet;rather your eye bubbles over like a wild Hawaiian volcano. Believe me, if you had pinkeye you would know. I would know. Most of all, your PARENTS would know and maybe, just maybe, you would have stayed home today. And second of all, get the hell out of my dojo! It is that time of year again. Time to buy stock in Purell. Time to hand wash like you are going into surgery. Time to invest in a protective bubble. A few days ago, while she was putting on her shoes, one of the other kids sneezed directly onto Maya's head. My kids class sounds like feeding time at the zoo.

My dad is a photographer. Nowadays he shoots mostly digital, but when I was a kid he used black and white film and printed the photos in our kitchen. Looking back on that time, I remember feeling excited on the nights he would set up this makeshift darkroom, like there was a wild adventure about to happen inside my little Manhattan apartment. He would hang thick, black curtains over the kitchen door and windows and a long clotheslines across the center of the room to hang his photos on while they were drying. The chemicals were poured into red and orange trays. Usually, I was asleep for all of this; but every so often, for reasons I do not remember, I was allowed to stay up and join him in that Halloween-like room that smelled strongly of photo chemicals and looked nothing at all like my kitchen. I would watch, wide-eyed, as blank pieces of photo paper turned into pictures. Sometimes he would even let me swish them around in the tray prior to hanging them.  Before printing, my dad wo

When you run a dojo, there are a lot of things you have to think about. What classes you are going to offer. How much you are going to charge for tuition. What to do about that slowly leaking pipe that is directly above the mens changing room. (Seriously, can someone come and fix that!) What color gis should everyone wear.  And if your students wear gis, they probably wear belts. And if they wear belts, you are probably going to have to figure out how and when to give them said belts. Which means some kind of promotion.  I have promotion on my mind right now. We just planned a big kids one at our dojo for early October. In mid October, our style promotes black belts, for which we currently have 4 candidates. My BJJ school is promoting students tomorrow. All of that adds up to a lot of pieces of colored cloth. There are many different ways to do belt promotions, and since I have been involved in multiple arts with gis over the years, I have witnessed a bunch of them. The promotion

A little over a week ago we went to the NY Renaissance Faire. (Yes I insist on spelling it that way. Their website spells it that way. It is correct. Lofty, obnoxiously correct.) We had a great time watching knife throwing and jousting, eating overpriced fried foods, and enjoying the scripted antics of people dressed up like Shakespeare. On the way home, I did what I always do on car trips, obsessively checked Google maps for the most efficient, traffic-free route home.  There are many ways to commute from Tuxedo Park, NY to Williamsburg, Brooklyn. All of them involve a bridge or tunnel of some sort, most of them through the fine state of New Jersey. Since I am a tad claustrophobic, if given a choice, I would always prefer a bridge. If it is New Jersey, I would prefer anything but the Lincoln Tunnel. Why such prejudice you ask? What difference does it make?  It doesn't really. Only to me. I have some weird travel quirks. In case you have never had the pleasure of this particu