Dellabee and Me

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I Want My Kids to Be Boxers

Kids in training

I do.  Not because I dream of wealth. I mean, yeah, I do, but not at the expense of my kids’ sweet profiles.

Nor is it because I enjoy seeing blood. I actually find blood draws to be mildly nauseating.  And my kids have bloody noses ALL THE TIME because picking boogers is a hobby they are honing to a fine art.

My kids – both the boy and the girl – really enjoy running around shirtless.  They call it “being guards.”  I don’t know where my husband brings them where the guards are shirtless (Vegas?).  My daughter enjoys shimmery outfits, which would lend itself nicely to shimmery boxing trunks, right?

I would love for my kids to be the ones other kids fear, not in a “there’s the bully” way but in more of a “that kid will KICK MY ASS” way.  You know how some kids, especially 2 year-olds, carry themselves like that? 

Ok, really, disregard all of the above.  Because the real reason I want my kids to become boxers is because of the brothers Klitschko.  These boxing brothers from the Ukraine are just adorable, despite their rather jarring slavic features.  They are both boxing champions.  They are loaded.  They both hold PhD’s.  You know their mama is proud.

But here is the appeal for me – they are DEVOTED to each other in a way that is unparalleled in modern sports.  These guys – Vitali and Wladimir – made a pact with their mother that they would never fight each other in the ring.  You have to understand the millions of dollars they could make if they chose to face off, but they chose family instead.  You think your brother would choose your face over a million dollar paycheck? Yeah, mine neither.

When one brother fights, the other is always in his corner (might I point out that my siblings didn’t even come to MY WEDDING?).  The Klitschko brothers help to train each other.  They never say a bad thing about each other to the press.  I am sure they are not perfect – I bet one brother always stinks up the other’s tank tops or takes the bigger piece of dessert or SOMETHING – but they share their wins and losses.  They are a team in a sport (and world) that emphasizes solitary achievements.  In interviews, when asked which brother is tougher, the answer is always the other brother.  What, no ego?

So I watch my shirtless kids run around here with bloody noses and I am filled with hope.  No mother could be prouder than the one who watches her children face the world united instead of rivals – boogers and all.


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