When I mention that my 8-year-old son dedicates 12 hours a week to a competitive gymnastics program, reactions typically fall into one of two categories. The first is an enthusiastic, “Wow, he’s aiming for the Olympics, right?” The second is more reserved: “That sounds like a lot. When does he get to have fun?”
I can often gauge the response I’ll receive. Parents from our highly competitive school and childless colleagues are usually in the first group, while teachers and family tend to be in the latter.
I typically brush off the Olympic aspirations, reassuring the concerned folks that gymnastics is indeed enjoyable for my son. I also make it a point to mention that he still enjoys plenty of time playing video games. However, the reality is that we are in a constant struggle to balance his lofty ambitions with the need to simply be a kid—one of the unexpected lessons we’ve both absorbed over the past year.
Sports were, to put it mildly, never my strong suit. I dabbled in basketball, softball, track, field hockey, dance, and gymnastics. I managed to stick with gymnastics long enough to learn some impressive tumbling tricks, which eventually earned me a spot on my high school and college cheerleading squads, but academics always took precedence for me.
With that background, I had modest expectations as I enrolled my children in various activities: ballet, soccer, swimming, skating, and tae kwon do. Some pursuits lasted a few months, while others stretched to a year, but nothing truly resonated.
Then, after witnessing an exhibition featuring Olympic male gymnasts, my son expressed interest in gymnastics. It took some time, but I finally found a class for boys. Shortly after signing up, he was invited to join the pre-team group, and soon after, he was promoted to the competition team. In a few months, his gymnastics training jumped from one hour a week to eight.
It all unfolded so quickly that we hardly grasped the implications. When someone suggests that your child might be exceptional and that same child—who had previously only shown interest in sports through Wii tennis—is happier than ever, it’s hard to decline.
The gym is a half-hour drive from our home, which complicates our schedule. While my daughter completed her homework in the lobby, I observed practice and found myself growing increasingly frustrated when my son struggled to keep pace with the other boys in acquiring new skills or seemed to receive less attention from the coach. The more I watched, the more anxious I became. If he was genuinely as talented as the coach claimed, why did he consistently forget to point his toes?
As the first competition loomed, my anxiety intensified. I joined an online gymnastics community, bombarding the forums with inquiries. I scoured the Internet for last year’s competition scores to determine how many children my son would be up against and how they had performed. I memorized every element of their routines and the point values for each bonus move.
Yes, I recognized that I had morphed into a CGM—crazy gym mom—an almost universally loathed label in the gymnastics world. When the coach began reaching out to me for competition insights, I realized I may have become a tad unhinged.
The first competition concluded on a high note. After executing five solid routines, my son performed an advanced bonus move in his last event—the only competitor among hundreds to achieve that feat. He ran to me afterward, beaming with joy. Victory!
However, the awards ceremony shifted the mood. My son faced off against 67 boys, many of whom had performed the same routines the previous year. He narrowly missed medaling and struggled to hold back tears.
The two-hour drive home was excruciating. The coach and I attempted various strategies to lift my son’s spirits. He barely spoke during the ride and even declined to stop for ice cream.
Upon arriving home, he finally allowed himself to cry in my lap. I reassured him that he had done his best—and he truly had. Yet all he could see was that his best had not been sufficient. I felt awful. What had I done?
As I reflected on those past months, I realized I hadn’t intended to place any pressure on him. I had repeatedly stated that winning didn’t matter to me, but now I had to question whether that was genuinely the case. I acknowledged my own disappointment. I hugged him tighter and eventually coaxed him to bed. The coach texted to let me know that my son could skip practice the following day if he needed a break.
The next morning, I was taken aback when he bounded out of bed with a smile. When I mentioned the possibility of skipping practice, he insisted he wanted to attend. “I’m just going to work harder,” he declared, “and next time, I’ll earn a medal.” Huh. Perhaps something I said had resonated, or maybe he just needed time to sort through his feelings. Either way, he was reinvigorated and more determined than ever.
He was also correct. At the next competition, he returned with an armful of medals. I was the one holding back tears when his name was announced for the first time. I glanced over to find the coach grinning as widely as my son. The remainder of the meets went smoothly, culminating in his first season with two silver medals and a bronze at the state championship.
I won’t lie—it’s far more enjoyable to witness your child win rather than lose. However, we both gained something more profound than mere awards this season. My son now understands that while medals are great, the relationships he forms with his teammates, the satisfaction of hard work, and the thrill of mastering new skills hold even greater value. I learned that I cannot shield him from disappointment, that he is more resilient than I had presumed, and that if I loosen my grip a bit, he will forge his own path.
We sacrifice a significant amount for this sport. Family dinners have become a rarity, weekend getaways are virtually nonexistent, and the financial burden of his training means fewer luxuries overall. However, while we all offer our support, ultimately, it is his passion that must drive him, not my expectations.
He is currently gearing up for the next competitive season, working harder than ever. He now trains more hours and strives to master increasingly difficult skills, but our anxiety levels have significantly decreased. I’ve stopped lingering at practice. When he shares news of a new skill he has conquered, I respond with, “Wow, you really put in the effort for that,” instead of probing about its point value.
Besides, I can always look it up online later. What? Recovery is a process.
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Summary
Navigating the world of youth sports can be a challenging experience for parents. Balancing the fine line between encouraging ambition and allowing children to enjoy their childhood is crucial. Through unexpected lessons, both my son and I discovered the importance of hard work, resilience, and the value of teamwork over mere accolades. Our journey has taught us that while competition is exciting, the real rewards lie in personal growth and shared experiences.