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The day is approaching when I will live in fear.
Well, probably not. On the contrary, I might actually
feel safer because I can one day travel the world with an entourage of bodyguards at my side. See, my wife is close to getting
her black belt in karate, my son is not far behind her, and my daughter is more than half way there as well.
I don’t take
karate. I prefer to speak softly and carry big biceps. This approach has kept me out of trouble so far.
I’ve got a considerable height, weight and
reach advantage on my wife, but I think she can probably take me if it came to a death match. I know how to box with a degree
of competence, but she is totally bad ass. I wish to mention that my wife graduated at the top of her class from medical school,
and people who accomplish such feats are not generally known for doing things half-assed. She works her butt off in karate
class several times a week, and supplements these teachings with plenty of one-on-one self defense classes.
She is often covered in bruises, none of which
were caused by me.
I
am delighted to report that we have a happy and peaceful relationship. Like any couple there can be the odd verbal altercation
over something mind-numbingly stupid – like how much rinsing of a recyclable is required before it is thrown into the
bin – but any physical damage we’ve done to each other in the last 20 years has been purely accidental.
Still, I think my
wife could probably kick my ass if she wanted to. Fortunately for me she doesn’t want to.
I could see how this could bother some guys; make
them question their masculinity. I’m not exactly a pushover, so I don’t fret too much about such things. In reality,
I think having a righteously ass-kicking wife is pretty cool.
It is oddly appropriate that many years ago when my wife was pregnant
and we were looking through a book of baby names that I looked up her name, Heidi, and the book said it was derivative of
“Hildegard,” which meant “Battle Maiden.” By the way, I strongly advise against ever calling her Hildegard,
or she might go all Battle Maiden on your ass.
My son is 11 and in another few years he’ll be a black belt, not to mention going through
puberty, surging with testosterone and newly attained muscle, and generally pissed off at the world. Still, he’s a good
kid so I’m hoping that he’ll remember that he loves his daddy and decide to let me live.
Nevertheless, if he decides to start throwing his
weight around, I’ve got a backup plan. Imagine this scenario: “Son, you can’t go out, you’re grounded.”
Boy thrusts out
his chest and takes an aggressive stance. “Yeah? Well, what are you going to do about it, Dad?”
Me: “Uh, I’ll
tell your mother.”
Boy slinks back to his bedroom.
My dad never had to worry about having such a backup plan with me. When I was a teenager
if I got out of line he could have cleaned the floor with me. He was falling trees in Northwest British Columbia for a living and was tough as nails, not to mention the fact that
he’d had a colorful childhood and was well versed in the art of kicking ass. Thankfully, we have always had a great
relationship and he’s never laid a hand on me my entire life. Actually, I was such a spaz as a teenager that I bet my
mom could have kicked my ass.
When it comes to my daughter, I’m pleased that she is very much
a Daddy’s Little Girl, because otherwise I’d be scared shitless of her. This kid has got focus! When
she’s doing karate it is with such intensity that I think the other kids in her age group are afraid of her. Whatever
latent genes of natural athletic ability that I possess seem to have come to the fore in her physiological makeup, and she
makes great use of them. Her future husband damn well better be good to her.
Yes, I have a happy family, so even though one day I’ll be the
least capable of the four of us in terms of self defense I’m not worried about this fact. It’s nice to know that,
during our travels, should we accidentally venture into some wretched hive of scum and villainy, that I will be well-protected.
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