The Pants of Shame

We’ve (well, mostly I’ve) been driving Tara into Minneapolis twice weekly to the Minneapolis Sword Club for the last three months.  The first couple of lessons showed us how good she truly is (after the first class, the instructor pointedly told me to make certain I brought her back because her skills were very promising), and yet how far she has to go before she can seriously participate in competitions.  The Competition Training Class meets at the near end of the room by the parental sofas.  I have to look through them to see Tara and the difference between them and her is obvious to both of us.  I’m very impressed with this school and its instructors.  They've made Tara really keen to improve.

The school occupies a remodeled basement bowling alley (with serious scope for the imagination) on the south side of the city.   It’s a decent sized space, but nothing as big as the gymnasium she used to meet in.  Nonetheless, the school fits three classes (a mixture of teens and adults) on the main bouting floor and a fourth (for children) in a huge side lounge area near the entrance.  The instructors are demanding, but fair and encouraging.  Tara is sweating profusely by the time each 75 min session is finished.  She’s fitting in nicely with the other teens (always a relief) and improving.  This school was a really good choice; she loves it. 

A couple weeks ago, from my vantage point among the parental sofas at the far end of the room and over the top of my book, it suddenly seemed to me that the instructor had singled Tara out to reprimand in front of the class and ordered her off the bouting floor.  They were completely out of my earshot across the noisy room, but I could see her wiping away tears as she crossed the room.  I sat on the edge of my seat watching closely and trying to decide if the intervention of the Mama Bear was warranted. 

Tara went to the front desk, where the attendant made her laugh, and then disappeared into the restroom.  She came out of the restroom, fully calm and smiling, and wearing a different pair of pants than she came to class in.  As she passed by me, her eyes were tear-free and she said she was fine.  She’d forgotten to change out of her jeans before we drove to class.  And, after the warm up, she went to the instructor (with fear & trembling that he’d make her sit out that day) to ask him to let her stay anyway.  He simply directed her to the front desk and the school's spare set of capris which she quickly donned and hurried back to the floor.  No reprimanding necessary.  He didn't need to, he knew what would come when she appeared on the bouting floor in those pants. 

As she arrived on the floor to collect the rest of her gear, the Competition Class instructor noticed the official “Pants of Shame” and alerted his class, who broke into applause and some good-natured ribbing about how filthy those pants must be (given the many people who’ve had to wear them over the years and the lack of washing they’ve received.)  Tara was marvelous.  She bowed to the Competition Class, modeled the pants (long ago embellished with Sharpie marker;  the back reads "Pants of Shame"  and the front has a dunce-capped stick figure being mocked by two other stick figures, captioned "I forgot my pants."), she smiled at me and then grabbed her gear and trotted back to class. 

I was incredibly proud of the way Tara handled that situation.  She was in the wrong, she took responsibility for it and reacted with humor, poise and courage.  A couple of years ago, she'd have dissolved completely into tears, become furious with embarrassment and lost her temper.  It was a glorious mothering moment!

At the end of class, she let me take some photographs of the pants.  We’ve decided on the way home that she should have her own “Pants of Destruction”.  I’ll buy her come capris and we’ll iron-on some designs with captions.