I Signed My 8-Year-Old Up For Martial Arts Just To Tire Him Out. Here’s What Actually Happened.
Six months ago, I was this close to losing my entire mind. I was three months into hybrid work, my 8-year-old son Jax was home with me half the week after school, and his infinite supply of 8-year-old boy energy had officially broken me. I should mention Jax is the kind of kid who can run three laps around the block, play 20 minutes of tag, and then ask if we can build a fort that requires moving every single cushion off the couch. Recess just warms him up. In the week before I signed him up, he’d climbed to the top of my kitchen cabinets to find the Halloween candy I hid, colored a dinosaur on the bottom of my work laptop, and dropped one of my AirPods in the fish tank. I was one interrupted client call away from sitting on the pantry floor eating an entire jar of cookie butter straight from the container.
A friend suggested martial arts. She said her kid was out for two hours straight, came home so sweaty he passed out in the backseat on the drive home, and slept until 7am the next day. I didn’t care about any of that “builds discipline, teaches focus” nonsense printed on the dojo’s flyer taped to the grocery store bulletin board. I didn’t want character building. I just wanted Jax to use up enough energy that he’d stop jumping on his bed yelling about creepers at 9:30 at night. Soccer was an option, but practice was 8am on Saturdays, and I am not waking up at 8am on a weekend for anything. Martial arts was 6pm on Tuesdays and Thursdays, which fit perfectly. So I signed him up.
The first day was chaos, of course. I bought the cheapest gi they had, and the sleeves were too long, so Jax rolled them up twice and still tripped over the hem walking into the dojo. I forgot his water bottle, so I ran to the 7-Eleven down the street, spilled my iced coffee all over my favorite sweatshirt rushing back, and showed up red-faced to stand by the observation window with all the other parents scrolling their phones. I was waiting for the meltdown, which came 15 minutes in: he refused to line up next to a kid he didn’t know, crossed his arms, and started crying. I was already grabbing my bag to go drag him out, already mentally writing the check to cancel, when I saw Sensei just kneel down next to him and ask if he wanted to hold the kicking pad for the bigger kids for five minutes until he felt ready. Jax nodded, and that was that.
For the first month, I still thought of it as just a glorified babysitter that got my kid out of my hair for an hour and a half twice a week. Some days it worked exactly how I wanted: he’d come out red-faced, hair sticking up all over, smell like sweat and cherry popsicles, and pass out in the backseat before we even turned onto the main road. I’d get 20 minutes of quiet to answer work emails without anyone drawing on my meeting notes. Win. Some days it backfired, though. He’d be so hyped about learning a new kick or earning a stripe on his belt that he’d run around the living room practicing forward rolls over the couch for an hour after we got home. So much for tiring him out. I’d stand there holding a dish towel, watching him jump over the coffee table, and think what did I get myself into.
I didn’t expect any of the small, weird stuff that started popping up after a couple months. Last month, there was a new 7-year-old kid who cried the whole first class, wouldn’t let go of his mom’s leg. After class ended, Jax dug around in his gi pocket, pulled out the extra lollipop he’d saved from the dojo’s reward jar, and walked over to hand it to him. He said, “Sensei lets you hold the pad first if you’re scared. It’s okay. I was scared too.” I was standing there eating a crumbly granola bar, and I almost dropped it. That’s not the kid who pushes his cousin when she touches his Lego. What is that?
A couple weeks ago was his first belt test. I forgot his actual white belt at home, so I had to borrow one from the front desk that was made for a 12-year-old. It was so big it kept sliding down his hips. Halfway through his form, it fell clean off onto the mat. I cringed so hard my shoulders hurt, waiting for him to freeze, or cry, or run off the mat to me. He just bent over, picked it up, tucked it into his waistband, and kept going. Didn’t even miss a step. After he got his stripe, he came running over to me grinning, and said, “I didn’t quit even when my belt fell, right?” I said he didn’t. That’s true.
Don’t get me wrong, he’s still the same pain in the butt he always was. Last Saturday he climbed our front oak tree to get a frisbee, fell, broke the neighbor’s new bird feeder, and hid the broken pieces behind the trash can until I found them an hour later. He still leaves his sticky gym socks under the coffee table, still jumps on my back while I’m trying to cook dinner, still stays up half an hour past bedtime whispering to his stuffed fox. It’s still $120 a month, I still have to wash that stinky gi twice a week, I still step on his mouthguard that he leaves on the living room floor at least once a month. I still grumble about it sometimes.
I got what I asked for, mostly. Most Tuesdays and Thursdays I get an hour and a half of quiet, no one climbing my cabinets, no one hiding my phone in the dryer. Half the time he comes home tired enough that he goes to bed easy. I didn’t ask for all the extra stuff, the lollipop for the scared kid, finishing the form even when his belt fell off, the little bits of grit I never would’ve seen sitting at home with him bouncing off my walls. It’s not a big miracle or anything. It’s just martial arts, and my kid, and sometimes things work out a little different than you planned when you just wanted a little peace and quiet. I’m not gonna say it changed our lives or anything. But it’s not bad, for a thing I just signed him up for to tire him out.
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