That just happened…Or, the weirdest week, ever.

The past week or so has been one of the strangest collection of events to ever occur.  As a matter of fact, it takes second place only to the week where I was 9 months pregnant with inexplicable diarrhea (turns out drinking copious amounts of Mylanta to treat heartburn gives you the crazy shits) and had to drive myself to the hospital, only to end up rescuing two Polish women, an Asian couple, and a Ukranian (none of which spoke English) after a huge car accident happened right in front of me.  And this week is still a close second.  Here’s what happened:

• Crouching Tiger, Hidden Nosebleed:  Out of the last 15 days, Chase has had approximately 13 nosebleeds.  I’m no mathematician, but that’s a freaking lot.  Like “were you this pale yesterday?” type shit.  And the thing is, he just sneaks around with them.  JD found him in the bathroom at two in the morning, just hunched over the toilet while a waterfall of blood gushed down his face.  And then Chase sneezed, and what was momentarily a sad and pitiful little event suddenly erupted into a full-on NCIS murder scene, complete with blood-spattered EVERYTHING.
• Dude, Where’s My Trash Can?:  So, it was about 11 in the morning last Thursday, and I was at work when my phone beeped.  I ran over to my bag to check for a text message, because only JD, my mom, and my mother-in-law text me I have a ton of friends who text me super awesome inside-joke-style text messages all of the time.  This time, unfortunately, it was JD, and the text said, “Where’s the garbage can?”  “Um.  Outside?” I replied.  “Nope.  Gone,” he stated.  It took a moment for this to sink in because 1) That garbage can is frigging huge, and 2)  I never take out the garbage (it’s man work in my house) and don’t really like to keep tabs on shit like that.  After a few minutes, the anger about the fact that someone stole my garbage can took over.  “What the hell?!  Does Oscar the Grouch just go around at night jacking people’s stuff?!” I responded.  “I don’t know,” JD said.  “But it’s gone.”  Well, it’s been like 4 days, can’s still missing, and I will never be able to watch an episode of “Sesame Street” without wanting to punch the TV screen.
• The Armpit:  Sienna is quite possibly the most adorable thing on Earth.  Correction:  She’s the most adorable thing on Earth.  That being said, you can imagine my shock when I lifted up her arms the other night after her bath, only to discover some weird-ass infection going on in her armpit (if New Jersey is the “armpit of America,” then Sienna’s armpit was the…”New Jersey of armpits?”  Or was it the “New Jersey of America?” Anyway…)   I was just trying to do some baby yoga with her, and then I discovered the red, yeasty-looking disaster where a normal armpit would typically be.  I thought about just WebMD’ing it, but quickly came to my senses when I recalled the time I got on there to see what the best way was to remove a splinter, and then after reading an article on the site, realized what I thought was a splinter was in fact cancer.  Prostate cancer.  And that I was dying.  So I called her doctor instead, and found out that her armpit issue wasn’t cancer, and that actually I was just a terrible parent who neglected to properly dry her underarms post-bath, causing a mild but very painful infection.  Phew, what a relief.
• The Dressy Toilet:  Yesterday, I wore this incredible dress to work.  It was the kind of dress that looked classy, but totally bad-ass.  Like I could twirl in it, but finish the twirl off with a ninja kick straight to your throat.  Pretty sweet.  So you can imagine my disappointment when, at 8:30 in the morning, I went to the bathroom, sat down to pee, moved my dress to the side, and then heard plop!  Naturally, I looked down into the toilet, expecting to see the sneakiest piece of poop ever, because I didn’t even feel the urge to poop.  Instead, what I discovered was part of my dress sitting in the toilet water.  And by “water,” I mean “urine.”  Oh, and in case you’re wondering, I had to dry it using the worst hand-dryer ever, which was basically the equivalent of letting a one-year-old blow out his own birthday candles.  
• The Adventures of Grenade Dog and Shit Filler:  We recently fenced in our yard, and it’s great because Mac and Chase can just run around like maniacs all day and we don’t really have to be parents anymore.  Or so we thought.  After they were outside for like an hour, we peeked out to check on them, and found 4 giant holes that made it look as though someone just tossed grenades off of our roof into the yard.  Mac basically did all of the dirty work, then Chase came in to fill the holes up with some special ingredients.  Like muddy rainwater.  And dog shit. 

Good times.  Good times.

Are you gonna’ eat that?

If you’ve ever wrestled, or if you’ve spent a lot of time around wrestlers, there’s one thing you know:  The relationship between a wrestler and his/her food is a strange thing.  It’s very…love-hate.  Wrestlers tend to go from not eating much of anything four months out of the year, to gorging on everything around them for the eight months leading up to the next season.  Watching this is, I assume, a lot like watching a bear preparing for hibernation…except instead of hibernation, it’s preparation for a quarter-year fast. 

*Just a note: By the time you finish this post, Reader, you may be thinking to yourself that it actually has nothing to do with JD’s complicated relationship with food that stemmed from years of cutting weight, and is in fact just an obsessive, psychotic wife’s rant caused by a diet-induced rage.  And I will tell you this: You’re wrong.*

Back to the story:

The eat-everything/don’t-eat-anything process goes on for years, and when these wrestlers leave their sweat on the mat for the last time, one thing still remains:  an eating disorder. 

JD is a perfect example of this.  It’s been five years since he’s had to make weight.  Five years.  And yet, somehow, he’s still stuck in his old eating habits.  He will go a few days only eating a couple of meals per day, to throwing anything and everything into that piehole of his.  Reese Cups?  Gone.  Leftover Chinese?  Demolished.  Unidentifiable substance in Tupperware jammed into the back of the fridge?  Never stood a chance.  But somehow, amidst all of the crap he’s eating, he still manages to have a six-pack.

In the meantime, here I am, busting my ass and doing my best to not even smell junkfood in an attempt to lose babyweight.  The other day, I accidentally knocked into a “50% off all Easter Candy” display, and the button on my jeans (okay, they were jeggings) immediately burst off and whacked some broad in the face. 

Now, I guess you could say the fact that JD can keep food coming on a conveyor belt straight to his mouth and not gain a pound makes me a tad angry…And by “a tad angry,” I mean “pissed,” and by “pissed” I mean “almost put a pillow over his face while he was sleeping on Thursday night.”  But, he’s done something now that has just taken it over the top.  You see, I weigh myself on a daily basis; sometimes I even do it twice a day (don’t judge me).  However, JD refuses to get on the scale.  REFUSES.  At first I would just say, “Hey babe, why don’t you hop on the scale while I’ve got it out and see what you’re weighing in at these days?”  To which he would reply, “Nah, I’m good.  I don’t really feel like weighing myself right now.”  So, I’d let it go.  Then, after a few days, I’d try again.  “JD, I just checked my weight.  Go check yours.”  “Nope,” he’d say nonchalantly.  “It’s the end of the day, and if I’m going to weigh myself, I’m going to do it in the morning.”  “Oh.  Um, okay,” I’d shrug.  What the hell?!  I would think to myself.  Just get on the scale and see how fat you are so I feel better about myself.  Jesus!  Is that so much to ask? 

I did my best to make it look as though I couldn’t care less.  But JD saw right through me.  Again, a week later, I suggested that he weigh himself since he’d slaughtered a box of Fruit Roll-Ups and Gushers the night before (I came back from the gym to find a crime scene littered with wrappers and sticky fingerprints all over my couch).  “I’ve actually decided I’m not going to weigh myself this year,” he proclaimed with a smile.  “Just get on the scale,” I said (with not so much of a smile).  “Babe, seriously.  I haven’t been working out that much, so I’m just not going to weigh myself for the rest of the year.”  I tried breathing deeply and counting to 10 in an attempt to calm myself.  “THAT’S BULLSHIT, JD.  YOU CAN’T JUST NOT WEIGH YOURSELF FOR A YEAR.  GET ON THE F-ING SCALE.  NOW.” 

So, turns out counting to ten and breathing deeply doesn’t really do a damn thing for my anger.  This was my breaking point, meaning I went full-on psycho after the JUST-GET-ON-THE-SCALE-AND-PROVE-YOU’RE-FAT incident of 2013.  My nights became consumed with plots to figure out how much he weighed.  How? I would think to myself in the wee hours of the morning. How can I hide the scale under the mattress on his side of the bed and check his weight at the same time? (In case you’re wondering, that doesn’t work…I tried.)  Once, he was about to put Sienna in the bathtub, and I tried sneaking the scale in front of the tub so he’d accidentally stand on it.  My plan was to quickly check his weight before he had a chance to realize he was on the scale, then perform some mind-blowing mental math by subtracting Sienna’s weight from whatever number popped up, and then I would know, and all would be good in the world again.  Turns out, it’s really obvious when a scale is right in front of someone, and so it’s really easy for that person to avoid said scale, and ultimately, the truth about how much the person weighs.

Reader, don’t for one second think that this post is about me being crazy or obsessive.  I’m not crazy.  He’s crazy.  I mean, who doesn’t want to know how much they weigh?  Seriously.  What in the hell is wrong with JD?  Right?  RIGHT?

Then, the other day, the stars aligned, and I tried in a last-ditch effort to get JD on the scale.  And guess what?  He complied.  Yup.  Stepped right on there.  I was so excited because the moment of truth had finally come, and JD was going to see just how much a fat slob he’d become.  And then, he would join me in my weight-loss efforts and we’d be that adorable couple wearing matching tracksuits on Sundays, loading our cart full of produce at the local Shop Rite.  I tried to contain myself, but inside, I was giddy like a schoolgirl about to meet Justin Bieber (who, for the record, is a turd, I’m sure).

JD’s tiny, hairy troll feet topped the scale.  The numbers bounced around like they do on “The Biggest Loser” weigh-ins.  Finally, the digits flashed, and the final number appeared.  147 pounds.  One hundred and forty-seven freaking pounds.  Are you shitting me?  This guy eats like a damn garbage disposal, while I’m munching on lawnmower clippings, and he hasn’t gained an ounce.  Awesome.

To top all of this off, just yesterday I was in the kitchen making “pasta” out of shredded carrots and zucchini, when JD says to me, “Last night, at like one o’clock, I came downstairs into the kitchen, and I ate the entire package of lunchmeat.  I don’t know what got into me.  I just…ate it all.”  He was drinking a beer when he told me this, and the only response I could muster was, “I can’t wait until you get gout.”

So, here we are.  I’ll keep sipping my unsweetened vanilla chai after spending two hours on a treadmill at the gym, and he’ll go on pounding booze and pork rolls while playing his imaginary friends on “Call of Duty.”  I’ll barely be able to fit into a Snuggie by the time summer comes around, and he’ll have to wear a belt just to keep his pants up. 

But, like I said before, this post isn’t about my resentment caused by diet-fueled rage…It’s about wrestlers like JD and the food complexes they develop, and how they’re the ones with issues…Not me. 

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m gonna’ go hide the scale under JD’s side of the mattress again.

We need that!

For those of you who know my husband, you probably think he’s a pretty tough guy; the kind of guy that doesn’t cave in, or have any weaknesses.  But you’re wrong.  Stop by my house late at night, or early on a Sunday morning, and you’ll witness firsthand JD folding like a lawn chair over…wait for it…infomercials.

That’s right, Reader.  JD can’t watch an infomercial without dialing that flashing number at the bottom of the screen, with the hopes of scoring a great deal (and, if you act now, free shipping!).

It’s a sickness.  I first saw it happen five years ago:  We were on vacation, it was early in the morning, and while channel-surfing, we happened upon an infomercial for The NuWave Oven.  Now, here’s where I blame myself.  I’m the one who stopped at the commercial.  But, I wasn’t looking to make a purchase; my sole intention was to make fun of the people selling the product (I like to replace whatever the product name is with a naughty word, like “vagina”).  I wanted to show JD how fun this was, so as the frazzle-haired saleswoman made her pitch, I encouraged the hubs to replace the word “NuWave” with “vagina.”  We watched and laughed as she spoke: So, all you have to do is take the frozen solid chicken, pop it in the NuWave vagina, and press “Go.”  It’s just that easy!  Hit “Go” on the NuWave vagina, and you’re only minutes away from a perfectly cooked meal. Buy a NuWave vagina today!

I was cracking up when I proceeded to look over at JD, positive that he, too, would be laughing uncontrollably.  But, he was nowhere to be found!  The only sensible thing to assume was that my little infomercial game made him laugh so hard that he ran to the bathroom because he was pissing himself.  Then, I heard rustling in the other room.  I followed the noise, and found JD rummaging through my purse, looking for his phone and wallet.  He found them, handed both items to me, and said, “We need that.  You have to call them right now.”  “What?” I said in shock.  Maybe all the “chicken in the vagina” talk had confused him.  “Jaim, we have to order the NuWave.  Did you see how nice that chicken came out?!”  “Of the vagina?  Yeah, I saw it,” I said, laughing, as I handed him back the card and phone.  “I AM SERIOUS.  Call and order it, tell them you want it rush delivered so we’ll have it when we get home from vacation.”  He shoved the phone and credit card into my hands, and ran back to the television so he could watch the demonstration all over again.  I called, ordered, and we received the NuWave about 4 days later.  As I type this, Reader, I’m glaring at the monstrosity that lives on top of my fridge.

But it didn’t stop there, oh no.  JD had been bitten by the info bug.  Two years later, it was the Xpress! Ready, Set, Go! Cooker.  It’s like a gourmet sandwich press, omelet cooker, and muffin pan all in one.  Do I use it?  Unfortunately, yes.

And now, most recently (yesterday), we became the proud owners of the GripGo! Phone Mount.  It’s for your car, and you just stick your phone to it and, according to the infomercial, it won’t fall off…Even if you held it out the window while driving 60 mph.  I was in the kitchen, washing dishes, when I heard the exaggerated voice of a pitchman (Oh no! Not again!  You try and you try, but that phone just won’t stay put on the dashboard!  Well, now, thanks to the GripGo, you can even flip your car and die in the mangled wreckage at the bottom of a ravine, but your phone will still be right where you left it!  AMAZING!  Call now! 1-800-you’ve-been-had-by-another-infomercial!).

“We need that!” JD shouted while simultaneously sprinting through the house like a madman, looking for his phone and credit card (if only he’d had the GripGo, his phone wouldn’t have been lost to begin with!).  I just shook my head in disappointment, finished the dishes, and went to the gym.  The last thing I heard before stepping out the door was JD’s voice saying, “How soon will it be here?”

Are there interventions for this kind of thing?

Things only a wrestler’s wife would say

From the first date to seven years later, here are some of my regular phrases when it comes to living with a wrestler:

1.  Alright, which guy gave you herpes this time?

2.  Your ear smells.  You gotta’ clean that thing out.

3.  Don’t use my headphones just because your earbuds don’t fit in your stink-ear.

4.  Damnit!  I have ringworm!

5.  Damnit!  Now the baby has ringworm!

6.  Damnit!  Now Chase has ringworm!

7.  Damnit!  How do you not have ringworm?!

8.  (Any time someone jumps on someone else) Two!

9.  Ugh…Iowa…

10.  Well, I’m 114.8 pounds right now, so I’m hoping to make 112 by Saturday. 

11.  Chase, there are guests over…Go take your singlet off.

12.  JD, what am I supposed to do with a box full of old singlets?  Oh, yeah?  You wanna’   keep them all?  Okay, if you can fit into this one from high school, you can keep it.  Oooh, not so tough now, are ya’?

13.  Hey babe, you’re looking mighty fine tonight.  What do you mean ‘what do I want?’ I just want to tell you how good you look.  No, no…I’m not trying to get you to workout with me…Oh, c’mon!  Just wrestle with me for like twenty minutes!  I’m trying to make 112!

14.  Quick!  I need you to look at this spot for me…I think I have ringworm again!  Look closer!  Oh.  Oh. No, no.  You’re right…That is just ketchup on my arm.

15.  Your friends can’t come over if all you’re going to do is talk about wrestling.

 

*For those of you who don’t know much about wrestling, or JD, I’m linking to a great article by Mike Lamberti about the hubs.

 

My dog munches carpet…and not in a good way

So, I’m still waiting for this whole “smooth transition” into being a larger family to happen.  But, it’s not.  Every time it seems like things are working themselves out, something ridiculous happens.

For example, my parents came and stayed with us for a few days last week.  It felt great to visit after having not seen them for six months, and it was the first time they’d met Little Miss.  Now, you can take the parents out of Indiana, but you can’t take the Indiana out of parents.  They were dying to go to Wal-Mart, so we packed up the kids and ventured out.  Chase and my dad wandered off, while my mom, LM, and I headed to the grocery aisles.  When we all finally reconvened, my dad was pissed that in the state of New Jersey, you can’t purchase airsoft rifles, let alone any other guns, in Wal-Mart.  I happen to like this law, because I’ve seen the kind of people who go to Wal-Mart for their gun/ammo-purchasing needs, and I believe it’s in the best interest to keep Larry the Cable Guy wannabe’s unarmed.  But, that’s just me.

Anyway, Chase and dad settled for a Nerf gun, we paid for our stuff, and went home.  This whole time, Mac Attack (our dog) was supposed to be locked up in my room, sleeping.  When we got inside the house, Chase ran upstairs to let the dog out.  “(Gasp) MOMMMMM!  Mac ate the carpet!  He ate all the carpet in your room!” was the first thing I heard Chase say.  “Chase, are you lying?” I asked. “Because if you are, you’re sitting in timeout.” “Mom, of course I’m not lying.  Mac ate your carpet.”  In my head, I still believed Chase was lying, or at least exaggerating.  I headed upstairs…You know that moment right before something really bad happens to you, and after that bad thing happens, you just wish you could go back to those few seconds right before when you were still happy and oblivious?  This was that moment.

I reached the top of the stairs, looked down at the carpet in my room, and it was gone. Gone. Yes. Seriously. Gone.  The carpet was missing and pieces were shredded everywhere, the foam underneath the carpet was destroyed, and the original flooring was completely exposed under that.  We’re talking a good 3×4-foot area of carpeting that had disappeared.  And then, it got worse.  The wall next to my door looked like it had been attacked by gremlins.  Oh, and my doorknob went from being a perfectly round, golden globe to a crumpled, jagged half-circle.

And where, you might be asking, dear Reader, was Mac?  He was already in hiding, aware that there was a strong possibility he wasn’t coming out of this one alive.  He barely survived the “I’m going to eat my own shit and throw up all over your walls” fiasco of 2012.  The odds were not in his favor.  But, once I found him and prepared to throw him outside into the great beyond, I gave up. 

This one event, on top of having an infant that either can’t stop shitting on me or can’t shit at all, and a 5-year-old who is desperately clinging onto sarcasm and a crappy attitude as his way of getting attention amidst the hustle and bustle of having a newborn in the family, was just too much.  Mac the carpet muncher had won.  There was nothing I could do or say to change what happened, so I grabbed a very dull razor blade and started hacking away at remnants of carpet in an attempt to get my door open all the way.  By the time I finished and walked downstairs, my mom’s jaw still hung to the ground, shocked and appalled by a day in the life of the Dubuque family. 

And as for the doorknob, well, just watch out for the edges.

 

You dropped a bomb on me, baby

There’s a common misconception in the parenting world:  It’s the idea that if you’ve already had one kid, then you’re prepared for having the second one.  I’m here today to tell you that this is complete bullshit.

Now, it’s been about five years since I’ve had to do the newborn thing, I will say that.  But, rest assured that I’m more than just “out of practice.”  I want to give you the perfect example of what I mean; let’s talk about poop.

Breaking news:  My daughter, Sienna (Little Miss or LM for short, even though “Little Miss” isn’t any shorter), poops.  Alright, give me some credit…I didn’t forget that much about newborns.  The first time she pooped and we were home from the hospital, I ran right up to her changing table, excited to embrace my maternal dootie (haha, I said “dootie”).  I laid her out on the changing pad, and started running through the steps:  Unbutton sleeper, unbutton onesie, open diaper, wipe…wipe…wipe…wipe…grab baby powder.  WAIT.  What was that puckering sound?  What is that?  WHAT IS THAT?  Oh, jesus!  Sienna!  The poop started flowing, and my mind went blank.  I froze!  I could see the wipes, I could see the diapers, but the connections just weren’t happening in my brain!  So, what did I do?  I just started grabbing the crap with my hands.  And believe me when I tell you, Reader, that my cup runneth over.  And by “cup,” I mean hands, and by “runneth over,” I mean shit was going EVERYWHERE.  Easily the most ineffective way to change a baby’s diaper, ever.

So, I learned my lesson, right?  You bet.  From that moment on, I decided that I’d wait a good ten or fifteen minutes before changing LM.  The next day comes, the next poop comes, and I wait a little bit until I’m sure she’s done.  Up we went to the changing table.  This time, I was prepared.  Unbutton sleeper, unbutton onesie, open diaper, wipe…wipe…wipe…Grab baby powder, sprinkle baby powder, grab new diaper, take a second to watch the baby move her head around and convince yourself that your baby is lightyears ahead of where babies her age should be, and that she’s pretty much already a genius with the strength of a panther.  Get ready to diaper up the baby, and…Oh. My. God.  NoNoNoNoNo.  Sienna, please don’t do this.  Quick!  What do I do next?!  Oh, come on!  Think!  THINK.  And then it happened.  Poop?  Yup.  Flowing? Of course. Hand? You know it.  

This child is a shit conveyor belt. 

Ring of Fire

There isn’t much that could bring this FitMama out of maternity leave.  I’ve been enjoying the time I typically reserve for blogging wrapped in teeny-tiny arms and onesies and half-empty bottles.  But with the news yesterday that the IOC (International Olympic Committee) is removing wrestling from the Olympics–not just considering or debating, but entirely banishing–I couldn’t just sit by quietly and watch it disappear. 

Wrestling is my family’s life; as a matter of fact, it’s the only reason I have the family that I do.  Take a trip with me, Reader, back to 8 years ago.  I was a fresh-faced high school senior, an honor student and avid athlete.  One day, as I walked to lunch, I saw a sign posted that our high school wrestling team was in need of a 103 pound wrestler.  I happened to be around that weight, and thought this could be the challenge of a lifetime.  Why not? I figured as I headed to the team’s first meeting after school that day.  When I walked into the room where the meeting was being held, I saw plenty of familiar faces.  These were, after all, guys I’d grown up with.  But what started out as a room full of smiles and familiarity quickly turned to anger when they realized why I was there.  Even on a high school level, wrestling was so treasured, so important, that the thought of someone coming in and making a mockery of the sport was cause for outrage.  Now, to make a long story slightly shorter, I stuck it out, managed not do die, and earned the respect of my teammates in the process. (Oh, and I developed some pretty sweet biceps.)

Then, it was time for me to head off to college.  I knew I wasn’t going to continue wrestling at the collegiate level, but I wanted to continue following the sport because that’s the beauty of wrestling.  Once it bites you, you’ve got the itch for it.  This could also be a serious case of ringworm, and you should see your doctor immediately.  I used Facebook to find a group created by Indiana University’s wrestlers (creatively named “The Real Wrestlers of IU”) and hoped I could locate a team schedule.  Instead, I located Joe Dubuque.  One snarky message led to one date, which led to one proposal, one wedding, and two kids (well, maybe not in that exact order, but you get that it’s still a Hallmark moment).  The bottom line is, had it not been for wrestling, I would have never met the guy I married, and sure I would have gone on to meet someone else and have kids, but they definitely wouldn’t have been as cute as the kids I’ve got now. 

My love for wrestling doesn’t end on the mat, or in the stands.  It goes home with me every night; it’s in the smelly workout clothes JD brings home, it’s the cauliflower ear I notice on people when we’re out and use to strike up conversations and make new friends, it’s Chase at 6 weeks old getting treated for the first of many, many, cases of ringworm he would get.  It’s the bonds and friendships that re-ignite every March in a hotel lobby filled to the brim with college wrestling fans.  It’s watching your husband and 4-year-old son making their first boys’ only trip to Iowa to cheer on a good friend and Olympic hopeful.  It’s knowing that if some sleeze ball guy hits on you out at a bar, that you can hit him with a double and probably get a free drink from an impressed bystander in the process.  It’s feeling alone and scared as a coach’s wife making the transition to living in a new state, only to be welcomed with open arms by the other coaches’ families.  It’s impromptu baby showers thrown by people you’ve just met, who fill your baby’s closet with tiger-striped onesies and black and orange bibs.  It’s the hopes and dreams you have for your own children to carry out dad’s legacy and excel in the sport.  It’s watching your little guy aspire to become an Olympic wrestler.

Now, believe it or not, wrestling isn’t like the NBA or the NFL.  There aren’t constant SportsCenter updates or matches being broadcast every Sunday for families to gather around the television and enjoy.  You can’t go to Wal-Mart and buy a Cael Sanderson poster, like you could a LeBron James.  You won’t find Cliff Keen brand t-shirts at Dick’s Sporting Goods or The Sports Authority.  Parents of kids who love wrestling have to work hard to make sure their children are exposed enough to the sport that they don’t lose interest. 

And that’s why the Olympics is so special to the wrestling community.  Once every four years, we can turn on the television and watch modern-day heroes step out onto the mat, echoing the footsteps of the Greeks and Romans who battled before them.  Words like “takedown” are defined for the general public, and used around watercoolers the next morning when recapping the previous day’s matches.  In my home, my son dons his little singlet, grabs his stuffed animals, and prepares to wrestle in front of the TV, shadowing the moves of Team USA.

The IOC doesn’t understand this; if it did, I wouldn’t have to write this post.  Petitions wouldn’t be circulating through Facebook right now.  The IOC hasn’t gone to the team trials, or to NCAA’s, hasn’t witnessed the humility with which wrestlers sustain their wins and losses; it hasn’t heard the cries of joy and sorrow reverberating through arenas as no-names become legends, if only to a small percentage of the world. 

Removing wrestling from the Olympics will be the catalyst for a downfall of the sport in all areas: collegiate and otherwise.  This sport is, among other things, my family’s livelihood, and I’m not just speaking financially.  It is the how and why I met the love of my life. 

So, to the IOC I say this:  Keep your hands off our sport.  We’ll decide how important it is, not you.