Punky Ferrier. FENCER.

I write only rarely now about my ten-year-old daughter, whom I call ‘Punky’ on this blog. I’ve never had any official policy on writing about my kids or stepkids- I’ve just gone with my gut, and so far, things seem to have worked out pretty well. My children beg me now to read them funny blog posts about their early childhood, and as I go back through the last ten years of writing, I’m thrilled that I recorded so much of their lives. So many moments would have been completely forgotten if I hadn’t written them down- and reading my archived posts brings so many sweet and hilarious moments rushing back.

That said, over the last year or so, Punky has matured to the point where her joys and sorrows are, for the most part, her own business. Now that she can articulate her story for herself (and now that she’s old enough to remember it), I want to give her the choice of whether or not she wants to share those stories with the world.

At the same time, I want to continue telling my story here, and sometimes my story involves my children. So I’m just going to take each day– and each blog post– as it comes.

And that brings us to today’s post, which is about…. drumroll please…. PUNKY! Because it’s a moment I never want to forget. And because I can’t resist sharing. And because there’s no way that I can find to share three short videos all together on Facebook without things gettin’ weird.

So! Punky has been on a soccer team for several years now, and the whole experience has been pretty… meh. She doesn’t have a passion for soccer, she’s not a star player, and she doesn’t even like it very much- We kept her on the team because one of her friends is on it, because we thought it was important for her to play a team sport at this point in her life, and, well, I’ll just be honest:  soccer is what we know. My older girls were obsessed with soccer, my husband has coached dozens of girls’ teams over the years, and we were just sure that if we kept our kids in soccer, EVENTUALLY, the light bulb would turn on and they would understand why IT IS SO AWESOME.

Yeah. Totally didn’t happen.

Recently, Punky began asking to try fencing. I blame repeated viewings of The Princess Bride. After her requests continued for a few months, I looked it up online and discovered that there were several youth fencing groups in and around Nashville, including one sponsored by the city that provided all necessary equipment and cost $50 for a 10-week session.

I think you know what happened next.

This happened.

I’ll admit, I had a lot of doubts about whether she’d make it through the entire session once she learned it was less Inigo Montoya and more… chest protector, straitjacket, awkward helmet mask, and flimsy, sword-like object. But over the weeks, I have been reminded yet again that despite appearances, my daughter is not a mini-me. She is a totally different person, with different passions, dreams, and desires.

And my daughter? She loves fencing.

However, there have been certain challenges– Namely, she’s had to deal with the fact that far more boys want to try their hand at fencing than do girls. And 10-year-old boys, from what I can see, tend to fence very differently from their female counterparts. While many girls, when unsure of what to do next, will hesitate, retreat, and try to remember the proper form, boys generally default to beast mode and just attack, rules be damned. I didn’t think this would go over so well with my dainty little daughter.

OF COURSE, when it was time for her very first bout, she was matched up with the largest, most aggressive boy in her class. I captured it on my iPhone for her father, wincing the entire time. Just as I suspected, the kid went all in while Punky struggled to defend herself .

Predictably, the boy won.

 

In Round Two, Punky fared better, quickly finding her target and striking. They were tied up. It would all come down to Round Three.

 

And it was almost over before it began. Punky held her ground, found her mark, and went for it, and I love the boy’s reaction, a pantomimed version of BEATEN BY A GIRL?! ME?! It was all I could do to keep from chortling in the bleachers.

When she had finished, Punky came over to me and put down her helmet. “I met my goal for today,” she said quietly, “and that was to not let him beat me.”

I couldn’t have been prouder.

I don’t know how long my daughter will enjoy fencing, but I’m thrilled she’s found a sport where skill can supersede size and aggression.

Punky? We’re sorry. We’ll never bring up soccer again.

 

Header image via Pierre-Selim/Flickr