Brandon and I had a little game we used to play that he called “Kung Fu Mama.” He would beg and beg, “Mama, Please? Kung Fu Mama? Please? Please?” I’d cave. I could never seem to resist that beautiful boy’s hazel eyes with the long eyelashes and his Russian accent, “Please?”
Kung Fu Mama was boxing MEETS karate MEETS football tackles MEETS wrestling MEETS Kung Fu and a whole lot of laughter. He’d throw a gentle punch. I’d slow motion block it and slide down for a tackle. He’d spin around his leg with a perfect form back kick “Hi-yah!” he’d scream. I’d grab is leg mid-air and he’d hop on one foot laughing and laughing. “Cheating, Mama. Cheating. No hold me foot.” “I’m not cheating, you cry baby.” “Me no baby. Me man.” “You’re a man getting beat up by a girl.” He’d laugh. “In English we call this ‘winning’.” Laughter.
On one particular Thursday, Katie decided to color a lovely picture of a whale in close proximity to our Kung Fu match. I did a side kick. Brandon jumped back to dodge the kick and his left heel crushed Katie’s black “washable” Crayola marker and splattered the entire contents on to the carpet.
Brandon’s mouth dropped wide open as he searched my face for an expression. When I started laughing, he burst into this uncontrollable rolling laughter. “Mama breakie your black marker, Katie. Mama breakie.” Laughter. I said, “No, Brandon. YOUR heel broke her marker.” He scrambled through his desk drawer for tape and taped together the crushed marker then offered it to her as some kind of peace offering. "There, Katie. It's perfect. It's good as new" I said. She was not humored in the least. Katie did her typical annoyed “Grrrr”and gathered her things and walked away. Brandon laughed, "Perfect, Katie. Perfect." (We later gave her a new black marker.)
Brandon and I laughed and argued back and forth a little while before Brandon ran downstairs and out to the garage to retrieve our steam-vac. He stomped up the stairs, laughing and knocking the steam-vac against his legs and the wall (Goodness, I miss the noisy way in which he stomped up and down the stairs). We filled the steam-vac with soap and began steaming the “washable” black marker.
Brandon had caught the giggles and could not stop laughing. I’m not sure what he thought was more funny—his 30-something mother doing Kung Fu, the snarling glare of his little sister from the "perfect" marker, or the PURPLE stain now forming on the carpet. Apparently, black washable marker leaves a PURPLE stain on the carpet.
When Tim got home that night from work, the first thing Brandon did was relay his side of the story, ‘Kung Fu Mama breakie the marker. Floor PURPLE!” Laughter. Then I promptly set the story straight that it was HIS foot that stomped on the marker.
Nonetheless, it was fun. I’m glad I said yes to his persistent invitation for Kung Fu matches. I enjoyed his laughter. And the purple stain is still on the carpet….Every time I walk by it, it's just a small remembrance of the fond times I spent with my precious blond warrior son. I miss my boy so much. I can’t wait to see him again some day.
|One of Brandon's Kung Fu moves he would try to pull on me.|
|Such a tease, this boy!|
|This is the best shot we could get...couldn't stop laughing long enough|
to get a better one