I Signed My 8-Year-Old Up For Martial Arts Just To Tire Him Out. Oops.
Six months ago, I was this close to losing my mind. My husband and I both work from home, our 8-year-old Jax gets out of school at 2:30, and from that minute until bedtime at 8, he is a never-ending tornado of unspent energy. I’m not talking normal kid energy. I’m talking climbing the built-in bookshelves to hide my work wireless mouse in the pothos, jumping on the couch mid-client call so hard the pictures on the wall rattle, stopping me every 90 seconds to ask if we can make slime, go to the park, get a puppy, all while I’m trying to hit a deadline. I’d tried everything: after-school playdates, which just meant two tornadoes instead of one. Soccer, which got rained out half the time and the other half he spent picking dandelions on the sidelines. I just needed something that would make him tired enough to sit still for an hour a day so I could get my work done. So when I drove past the new martial arts studio on Main Street and saw their after-school flyer taped to the door, I signed him up right there. No big plans about discipline or self-defense or character building. Just wanted him to burn 1000 calories running and kicking so he’d stop climbing my bookshelves.
First class, I sat in the little waiting area by the door, already half-checking my work email, proud of myself for solving the energy problem. Ten minutes in, I looked through the glass wall and what do I see? All the little kids sitting cross-legged on the mat, quiet as can be, listening to the instructor talk. I blinked. Wait, this is the opposite of tiring him out. I came here for running around, not enforced sitting for 7-year-olds. The waiting area had that weird vinyl couch that smells like old lemon disinfectant, there was a half-eaten bag of Goldfish crackers on the armrest that no one had thrown away, and the mom next to me was sipping a $7 matcha latte she’d brought from the fancy coffee shop down the street. I whispered to her, “Is this what they do every week? All the sitting?” She laughed and said “Wait an hour, you’ll see the kicking.”
After the first month, Sensei Mike, the instructor—this quiet gray-haired guy who always has a peppermint in his pocket—pulled me aside after class. I froze, thinking Jax had kicked a hole in the wall or something. Instead he said “Jax is doing really great. He pays attention, helps the little new kids tie their belts. Good kid.” And I got so flustered, I just blurted out the truth: “I mostly just signed him up to tire him out.” I was waiting for him to be offended, like I was wasting his time or whatever. But he just leaned against the doorframe and laughed, said “Half the parents in this place do that. Don’t worry. If it gets you an hour of quiet and gets them moving, it’s a win for everyone. The character stuff is just a bonus.” That stuck with me, actually.
His gi was the cheapest one they had in the store, and it was a size too big because I figured he’d grow into it. He steps on the cuffs of the pants every time he walks, so I’ve rolled them up twice, and the hem is all frayed now from dragging on the mat. He drew a T-Rex on the inside of the collar with a blue Sharpie one night after class, so if you pull the collar down you can see its little pointy teeth sticking out. I keep meaning to wash it out, but he yells at me if I try, so it’s still there.
How’s the original plan working out? It’s hit or miss, honestly. Some Wednesdays and Fridays, he stumbles out to the car, all sweaty, hair stuck to his forehead, chugs half a bottle of Gatorade in the parking lot, and by the time we get home he’s already asking if he can lay down. He’ll crash on the couch while I make dinner, sleep through half an hour, and when he wakes up he’s only half as crazy as usual. Those are the good weeks. Those are the weeks I feel like a genius for signing him up. But other weeks? He runs laps around the grocery store parking lot after class, chasing squirrels, climbs on top of the picnic table when we stop for ice cream, and is still bouncing off the walls at 8:30, which is 30 minutes past his bedtime. So it’s not a perfect solution. No surprises there—nothing works with an 8-year-old all the time.
Last month, he did his first little belt test, moving up from white to yellow. I completely forgot the $10 testing fee. I stood there at the front of the mat, fumbling through my wallet, finding nothing but a crumpled grocery receipt and a dried-out lip balm, while all the other parents stood on the other side of the glass watching, and Jax was pulling on my shirt going “mom hurry we have to bow now.” I ended up Venmoing Sensei Mike while I was standing there, my face all hot, and Jax didn’t even care that I messed up. He just ran onto the mat, grinning, messed up half his kicks, got his little yellow belt anyway, and slept with that belt under his pillow for three nights.
I see all these parenting posts online, talking about how you have to intentionally choose activities that build this or that in your kid, how every minute is a teachable moment. I didn’t do that. I just wanted an hour twice a week where I could sit on that smelly vinyl couch, drink my terrible gas station iced coffee, answer my emails, and not have Jax hang off my leg asking for a third snack. And yeah, there’s been some bonus stuff I didn’t expect. He used to come home from school screaming if his friend refused to share the blue crayon, and throw his backpack across the room. Now he’ll come home and say “I messed up my forward roll three times in class today, and I didn’t cry. I just tried again.” But he still flipped the Monopoly board last week when he landed on Boardwalk and didn’t have enough money, so it’s not like he’s some perfectly disciplined kid now. No such thing, if you ask me.
Last week, he accidentally kicked a kid in the shin during sparring, hard enough to make the kid cry. Jax came running off the mat crying too, thinking he’d get sent home forever. We apologized to the other kid’s mom, bought Jax a vanilla cone on the way home to calm him down, and by the time we got home he was already talking about how he’d aim better next week. I still don’t know if martial arts is the “right” activity for him. I still don’t care that much about the belt promotions or the weekend tournaments or any of that. Sometimes it tires him out, sometimes it doesn’t. It gives me an hour of quiet twice a week, and he comes home with a dinosaur on his gi collar and a dumb story about kicking something. That’s more than enough for me, I think.
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