manning up

So if you haven’t quite picked up on it yet, my mad parenting skillz are always “in development.” Many nights as I lay awake staring at the ceiling, I ruminate upon all the ways I’ve undoubtedly screwed up my sons, impaired their journeys to manhood, utterly failed as a father and all the hours of therapy they’ll have to endure to remedy my paternal incompetence.

And then I have a day like Saturday.

My wife and older son were off to a day-long bicycling event in New Haven, which meant it was only me and my younger son for the day. He’s a bit of an introvert and not the easiest to communicate with at times, but once you get to know him and “unlock his code,” so to speak, you discover that he’s terrific company. A day with him is always well spent.

Anyway, like any Saturday with kids, there’s always an activity going on, and for my son, Saturday is karate day. He loves it and has been doing it for years, even picked it over soccer, which he didn’t suck at. He has worked his way up to red belt, and has even presented forms and sparred competitively in a few tournaments. (And no, he hasn’t had to sweep the leg.)

Another tournament is coming and the class has been preparing for it. Last week, my son had an off presentation of his form, and because he’s a Rain Man-like math whiz and had kept track of everyone’s scores, was very upset because he got the lowest for the day. We went over it all week, including one more time on Saturday. It seems better, but that may be wishful thinking on my part.

Usually, Saturday morning is also the time when I really step up on the “man” front and we practice sparring. By “practice sparring,” I mean I sort of stand there with no pads throwing occasional slap punches and half-kicks in his direction while he uncorks on me with all of his might. Even though he’s “only” 11 and wearing boxing gloves and footpads, he punches *hard* and kicks *even harder*—that soccer leg is still in there. A few months ago he caught me clean in the gut with a kick so strong that it dropped me to one knee; since then, like any kid who got the better of a parent, he’s been trying to duplicate it, which means I’ve been battered like Glass Joe.

Despite his success in kicking my butt in the basement, in the past few weeks, he’s been struggling in class. He twice had the wind knocked out of him by kicks from older black belts—they were going easy, but sometimes accidents happen—and then he had a series of poor matches against other kids his size, including one very good student named Gabe, who is a little dynamo. Consequently, his confidence has been at zero. He has constantly been backing away from opponents, almost to a comical point one time where he was literally running in circles to avoid getting hit.

Fortunately, his sensei has gotten him through the worst of it and his confidence has been slowly ebbing back, but it’s not to the level where it used to be. He’s still been a bit combat shy, and it doesn’t help that he’s among the smallest kids in the group. Still, he always wants to go to class, which is good. I think.

On Saturday, after he finishes beating me like a rented mule, I try to pump him up. I remind him how he’s scored against everyone in class, and that the kid who regularly pummels me in our basement is in there and needs to come out and pummel others. He looks at me and says, “No offense Dad, but you’re not a black belt hitting me back.” Grrrr!

We go to class, and his sensei announces that both sparring and forms are on the agenda. A small knot forms at the base of my stomach. No escape this week.

Like any father, I want to see my kid enjoy success for his own psyche, but like many of those dads who scream mercilessly at their kids on baseball, soccer and football fields, I guess I’m also living vicariously through him. I could deny it here, but the truth is that on some level that’s probably higher than I want to admit, I see his struggles and failures as mine, as self-absorbed as that sounds. Of course, I like to think that I differ from those Great Santini-type dads in that rather than scream and abuse, I’m trying to guide my sons to manhood through positive reinforcement. You know, to a point.

So forms are first. Except while waiting his turn, my son is called out by his sensei to do 20 pushups for fidgeting too much. Not a good start, I think as I watch him count them off. Fortunately, his turn comes quickly, and he goes out there and presents his form. Maybe it’s me or the pushups, but he’s more focused and it’s much better than the prior week.

The sensei and older students agree, giving him higher scores. As he goes to sit back down, he glances over with an almost smile on his face. Nice!

After everyone is done with forms, it’s sparring time, and as my son gets on his equipment, I lean in close. “Just like we practice,” I whisper. He nods and scrambles back out onto the floor. The sparring starts, and as the sensei starts pairing the kids, a new knot forms in my gut as I see my son is going to have to square off against the dynamo Gabe.

The match starts, and as Gabe goes forward throwing wild punches, my son starts backing away. Aww crap, not again, I think as my heart sinks. But it’s only for a moment—as I have been telling him, his feet are dangerous, and if he can connect with a kick or two, it will stop anyone’s attack. Sure enough, he’s backing away to bait Gabe, and is able to connect with a solid kick to slow the assault and score a point. From there, he stands tall and battles Gabe hard. The three-minute time limit expires and the one point stands. Winner, winner chicken dinner!

After sparring, he comes over and gives me a fist bump before taking off his equipment. On the way home, he says, “That was a good class.”

I nod, and suddenly feeling a Mike Brady-like zen and that I should strike while his confidence is high, announce that we’re going to the old gravel track to work on him learning to ride his two-wheeler.

For a number of reasons (maybe I spent too much time playing games while on my butt?) he has never really been interested in riding a bike. Not wanting to make a big deal over it, I never pushed the issue until last summer. After having spent hours running alongside him helping him with his balance, he was getting close to riding on his own but wasn’t quite there yet when we ran out of decent weather.

Now, when he hears my suggestion, he makes a faint protest, but agrees. We get to the track and no one’s there but us. We roll out his bike, and I briefly mention how close he was last year. He gets on and grabs the handlebars, and I get ready to put one hand on the seat to steady him but … he just rides off!

I stand there stunned for a second, and then run after him.

But he really doesn’t need me—for whatever reason, something apparently has just clicked and he can suddenly do it on his own. He asks me stay near, but it’s all good. Before he thinks about it too much, he’s gone one, two, three quarter-mile laps without incident. Near the start of the fourth lap, however, he wobbles and crashes hard, ripping up his knee.

“It’s okay,” I say, splashing some water on the cuts. “Let’s do one more lap.” He reluctantly agrees, but gets right back on and puts in another strong lap. Suddenly, my son can ride a bike on his own!

We get home, and feeling the fatherly testosterone now flowing strongly, ask my son if he wants to help me take apart an old dresser … with a sledgehammer.

“Ohhhh yeahhhhh!” he says. “Let’s smash stuff!”

As he’s breaking apart the drawers, I quietly wipe away a tear and grunt once or twice in approval. As I see it, there’s only one last requirement for the day to earn a full punch on our man cards:

My wife and other son join us for this, but my younger son is sitting next to me during the film. Halfway through it, while laughing like every real guy does at The Three Stooges, he reaches over and puts his arm around me. “This is great,” he says.

Yes. Yes it is.