Antonio's red belt form

Antonio's the little guy in the middle. A story to go with the video. This was published by SLAB LITERARY MAGAZINE in April, 2008. Antonio has done awesome in Tae Kwon Do and Spanish Immersion Kindergarten. Things have changed tremendously since this story was written. I credit much of his growth to Tae Kwon Do. Of course, parenting is important too. I KNOW THAT I'M GOING TO CRY I know that I'm going to cry. Puffy cheeks, red bloated eyes, throat squeezed and my chest too tight. "Bye, Mama Beth," Antonio says. His right hand beats the air, back and forth, back and forth. Bringing his palm to his mouth he smacks loudly, creates a wind tunnel with his pursed lips, zooms a kiss with a full-throated exhale. A two thumbs up sign and wide smile stamps his goodbye. Oh, oh, this Tae Kwon Do class is in trouble, I think. Raising my eyebrows I acknowledge him with a crisp wave of my hand. Leaving the large narrow space I glance back at the eighteen children, four to twelve years old, sitting meditation style. Antonio and Crystel sit one behind the other licking their palms. They are pretending to be cats. Immediately, I know that, although it might not be obvious to others. They spend hours at home being a cat and dog. I give my two five-year old children a pained smile. Master Lindeberg's office is down the hall. I walk in and just as I start to speak tears roll over one another before I can finish my first sentence. Tall and fit, Mr. Lindeberg pulls his well-balanced frame upright and shuffles paperwork aside. "This isn't about Antonio?" I nod. Taking a seat, I pause until I can talk through my tears. Leaning towards me, Mr. Lindeberg rests his forearms on his desk, folds his fingers together. Finally I'm able to say, "Antonio's the biggest goof in class. We don't know what to say or do with him anymore. Jody and I have tried Tae Kwon Do classes at different times of the day, classes with and without his sister. We are starting to question whether he has ADD or ADHD." He rests back in his chair, crosses his arms. "Well, I'm not a doctor or anything but he seems pretty normal for his age group. Don't get me wrong. I get frustrated too." Wiping at my tears with my shirtsleeve, I say, "You should have some Kleenex in here for the moms." Breathing deeply, air fills my chest. My throat is opening up. Mr. and Mrs. Lindeberg have 150 students, children and adults, and have been teaching Tae Kwon Do for twenty years. They know more about five year olds than any book can tell me. This isn't the first time my partner, Jody, and I have sought out their assurance. He laughs. "We usually do. Oh, here are some napkins." I sweep away his next comment. "I'm concerned about you," he says. "The problem is that parents come in and they get tunnel vision and all they see is their child." "But, he's the biggest goof in class," I argue. "When he is supposed to be at attention he has his foot up on the wall. When he's supposed to be listening he's falling down on the floor. He does cartwheels to get to his place in line instead of walking like the other kids." I rush on, "I worry about the other parents. They paid to have their children come and learn and the kids who are black belts can't teach him because he won't pay attention." Mr. Lindeberg touches his brow, straightens his glasses. "He listens to me and the other adult teachers, doesn't he?" Rocking my head side to side, I relinquished a yes. It is easy to admit that in the year Antonio has been taking Tae Kwon Do lessons that he has changed. He used to jump on the older kids and hug them. Once he shocked an eleven-year-old boy by kissing him on the cheek. "The light comes on for kids at different times. Antonio's an orange belt. He's still considered a beginner. I want you to know that there are some kids who don't listen because they're just plain defiant. Now I don't like those kids. But I go on gut feel. When I see Antonio I'm happy. He's always has a big smile on his face." Tears gush from my eyes. I hold up a hand to stop him from saying more, dab at my eyes with the napkin. "See that's going to make me cry, too." Before children, I was unable to access my tears. I had to go to a movie theatre and in that darkened space I could cry for someone else. Today in any given moment, I will be teary-eyed. I knew that change was imminent shortly after meeting the babies in Guatemala. Brushing their heads and faces with a light touch of my fingers, tears fell silently down my cheek. How do people do it, I wondered. Have such emotion all the time? The children are curious about my tears. One night at bedtime while reading Love You Forever by Robert Munsch, I tell Crystel that I am going to cry. We are at the same spot we always are when my chest fills up, my eyes bloat, and the leaking starts. The son went to his mother. He picked her up and rocked her back and forth, back and forth, and he sang her this song: I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, As long as I'm living my Mommy you'll be. "Let me see," Crystel says. She lifts up my glasses and touches my tears. "Read it again, Mommy, read it again." Mr. Lindeberg likes to squat lift more than he weighs. Free weights and other exercise equipment fill the second story of his building. He's a runner as Jody and I are. Stuffing the napkin in my pocket, I say, "I have a hard time watching him in class. I need to go for a run or something. His behavior bothers me. I can't stand it." "Well I think you should. Just leave him to us for an hour. The one who needs to not give up on Antonio is you," Mr. Lindeberg says. "I can give up. Antonio can even give up on himself. But you need to not give up on him." His words stick in my mind. At the next Tae Kwon Do class I open the back door, step out for a 45-minute run. Maple leaves float down, tangoing with the sun striking my back. I circle a park three times before heading back and note the flock of geese preparing to head south. Prairie grass that surrounds the small lake are past peak color, but the wildflowers that dot gardens are still in bloom. I'm his mother. I know how to not give up. I never gave up on myself.