Tae Kwon Toe

Our Korean Tae Kwon Do instructor offered to teach a class for the staff. While Ross was gone in February, I signed up (like a crazy woman). I told myself, it'll be good exercise. It will give me a different environment one time a week. I'll get to hang out with some of the gals on staff and get to know them better. It'll challenge me. All true. However, I am 10 years older than everyone (well, almost everyone) in my class. I am the only married one. I am the only one who has birthed children. I'm the only one who thinks about lining up childcare so I can be there. I'm the only one who wonders if her baby is hungry during the class. I'm the only one who can't do a forward roll (help!). I can kick. I can yell, "HUH!" when I punch. I can mentally focus for that one hour a week. I can think about showing my nephews all my new moves next summer. I told Ross this morning that my outlook has totally changed. I said, "If a guy tried to snatch my purse now or grab me, I'd just do this..." (then I proceeded to show him how I could kick his nose). He then reminded me he might have guns and knives. But still...I am being stretched. I like it. It has taken me out of my mommy-comfort-zone. Here are the adorable girls with whom I take my class.
And here is my adorable daughter, who, I was told by my instructor, should teach me how to do forward rolls. It is evidently her favorite part. She told me last week, she is going for the black belt. I believe her. She also told her teacher she wishes she had black hair so she looked Korean.

But growth, stretching, removal of comfort zone does not come without cost. We learned a new kick this week. It is a sort of run, left knee up for leverage, then a high right flying kick. I learned it. I felt empowered. Then I felt pain. I caught my toe on that last one. And here it what it looks like now. Eva is pointing at it.

I came home from class and the girls immediately knew 'something' had happened. I crawled in bed with my hungry boy and they said, "What's wrong, Mama?" I said, "I broke my toe." Now this statement made to someone who has known me as long as my mom would be no big deal. Didn't I jump off a 2nd story balcony in 7th grade as the new girl trying to impress new friends and break my toe? Haven't I stubbed it multiple times on bed frames in the middle of the night and broken it? Sure. But to my little girls, 'broken' must have meant, "broken off." For, their 8 little eyes became saucers and they were speechless. Then Eva snatched back the covers, I suppose to see if my toe was still there. It's still there, but it's blue. Ross keeps asking me if I have put ice on it. My house hovers at 60 degrees. My feet are already cold. Isn't that enough to keep swelling down? Apparently not.

And wouldn't you know, it's on my 'bad leg,' the one that reflects the (very worth it) aftermath of my 5 beautiful babies. But anyway, here's to hoping it is better by next Friday's class. I've got some kicking to do.