Updated: Dec. 18, 2015
Originally Published: June 4, 2015
Whenever people discover that my 8-year-old son trains a staggering 12 hours a week on a competitive gymnastics team, I typically receive one of two reactions. The first is an enthusiastic, “Wow, will he be going to the Olympics soon?” The second, a more tempered response: “That sounds like a lot. When does he get to enjoy himself?”
I can usually predict which group they fall into. Parents from our highly competitive school and colleagues without children tend to be in the first camp, while teachers and family members lean toward the second.
I brush off the Olympic aspirations with ease and reassure those who worry by stating that gymnastics is genuinely enjoyable for my son. I also make it a point to mention that he still enjoys plenty of video game time. However, the reality is that we constantly walk a fine line between chasing dreams and allowing him the freedom to just be a kid—an unexpected lesson we’ve both absorbed this past year.
Athletics were never my strong suit, to put it kindly. I tried my hand at basketball, softball, track, field hockey, dance, and gymnastics, quitting almost every time. I did stick with gymnastics long enough to master some cool tumbling tricks, which eventually earned me a spot on my high school and college cheerleading teams, but academics were truly my strong point.
So, when it came time to enroll my kids in various activities, my expectations were modest. Ballet, soccer, swim team, skating, and tae kwon do all came and went, but nothing seemed to capture their interest for long.
That is, until my son caught a glimpse of the men’s Olympic gymnasts during an exhibition and began asking about gymnastics. After some time, I found a boys’ class, and within weeks, he was invited to join the pre-team group. Not long after that, he was promoted to the competition team. Just like that, his weekly gymnastics hours jumped from one to eight.
It all unfolded so quickly that we hardly had time to process what we had signed up for. When someone tells you that your child might be exceptional—and that same child, a bit of a loner with previous interests limited to Wii tennis, is happier than you’ve ever seen him—it’s hard to decline such a promising opportunity.
The gym is a half-hour drive from home, creating logistical challenges. While my daughter tackled her homework in the lobby, I found myself watching my son’s practice, growing increasingly frustrated when he struggled to keep up with other boys or seemed to receive less attention from the coach. The more I observed, the more stressed I became. If he was truly as talented as the coach claimed, why did he always forget to point his toes?
As the first competition drew near, my anxiety escalated. I joined an online gymnastics forum, bombarding it with questions. I scoured the web for last year’s meet scores to gauge how many kids my son would compete against and how they performed. I memorized every element of each routine, including the point values for bonus moves.
Yes, I became a CGM—crazy gym mom—the epitome of what not to be in the gymnastics world. It dawned on me that I might have lost a grip on reality when the coach started reaching out to ask for competition insights.
The first meet was a rollercoaster. My son delivered five solid routines and executed an advanced bonus move in his last event—the only child among hundreds to pull off that particular skill. He dashed over to me, beaming with pride. It was a moment of triumph!
However, the awards ceremony brought a stark contrast. Competing against 67 boys, many of whom had prior experience with the same routines, my son finished just shy of a medal and fought back tears.
The two-hour drive home was agonizing. The coach and I tried every trick in the book to lift my son’s spirits, but he remained silent, even refusing to stop for ice cream.
Once home, he finally let the tears flow in my lap. I assured him he had done his best—and he really had. But all he could see was that his best hadn’t yielded a medal. I felt awful. What had I done?
Reflecting on the past months, I realized I hadn’t intended to pressure him. I repeatedly claimed that winning wasn’t my priority, but deep down, I began to question whether that was entirely true. I had to admit I was disappointed too. I hugged him tighter and eventually coaxed him to bed. The coach texted to say my son could skip practice the next day if he needed a break.
Surprisingly, the next morning, he bounced out of bed with a smile. I mentioned the option to skip practice, and he insisted he wanted to attend. “I’m just going to work harder,” he declared. “Next time, I’ll get a medal.” It seemed that, perhaps, something I said resonated, or maybe he just needed time to process things on his own. Either way, he returned to the gym with renewed determination.
And he was right. At the next meet, he came home with a fistful of medals. I was the one holding back tears when they called his name for the first time. I glanced over at the coach, who was grinning almost as widely as my son. The remainder of the meets went smoothly, culminating in two silver medals and a bronze at the state championship.
I won’t deny that witnessing my child succeed is far more enjoyable than watching him struggle. However, at the end of the season, we both gained something even more valuable than trophies. My son learned that while medals are great, the friendships he forged with his teammates, the pride that comes from hard work, and the thrill of mastering new skills are even more rewarding. I learned that I can’t shield him from disappointment, that he possesses more resilience than I had assumed, and that if I loosen my grip just a bit, he’ll carve his own path.
We sacrifice a great deal for this sport. Family dinners are rare, weekend getaways are non-existent, and the hefty fees for training leave little room for extras. Yet, while we all offer our support, the reality is that my son is the one who must show up to the gym every day. Thus, it has to be something he genuinely desires, not merely what I want for him.
As he gears up for the next competitive season, he is training harder than ever, putting in more hours and challenging himself with new skills. However, both of us are feeling much less anxious now. I’ve stopped lingering during practice. When my son shares news of a newly mastered skill, I respond with, “Wow, you really put in the effort for that,” instead of asking about its point value.
Besides, I can always look that up online later. What? Recovery is a process.
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In the world of parenting, unexpected lessons abound, especially when it comes to navigating the competitive sports arena.
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