Today, after Mitchell’s karate practice—where he kicked with such ferocity I briefly questioned if he was auditioning for a reboot of The Matrix—we had a moment. Not just any moment. A bonding moment. I decided the time had come to inspire, to challenge, to absolutely obliterate his expectations of the human body’s potential. Right there in the middle of our living room dojo, I unveiled my pièce de résistance. My highest kick. A kick so stratospheric, so commanding in its arc, that if a panel of Olympic judges had been present, I’d be crying into my gold medal right now. We’re talking a feat so majestic it could’ve been choreographed by the gods—or at least a very enthusiastic gym teacher.
And Mitchell? Mitchell stood there, his jaw hanging somewhere around his Velcro sneakers, fully captivated in his signature getup of a karate shirt and an overburdened Pamper that was absolutely drafting its declaration of independence. Forget post-practice diaper duty. Not today. Instead, I handed him a pen and paper—a nod to the timeless combo of art and accountability—and tasked him with creating an essay on the unparalleled majesty he had just witnessed. Did he wax poetic about the graceful, wind-splitting arc of my leg? Did he compose a heartfelt declaration on what it means to watch greatness unfold before your very eyes?
No. Mitchell drew a dinosaur. With sunglasses. Or possibly regular glasses. It was tough to tell, considering one of its arms was suspiciously long, like it was about to do jazz hands. But here’s the thing: I think—no, I know—he got it. Somewhere in the recesses of his tiny, mischievous brain, he absorbed my lesson. Probably. Maybe. Okay, fine. Maybe not.
But today, when the air was sliced clean by my gravity-defying kick and Mitchell’s cannonball energy took a brief intermission, it wasn’t about him. Not his epic backflops, nor his ferocious roundhouse attempts. No, today was my moment. My mountaintop. My twenty-foot-high (give or take) legacy. And you better believe I’m claiming it.