Updated: December 18, 2015
Originally Published: June 4, 2015
Whenever I mention that my 8-year-old son trains a whopping 12 hours a week on a competitive gymnastics team, I typically receive one of two reactions. The first is an enthusiastic, “Wow, so he’s aiming for the Olympics, right?” The second is more reserved: “That seems like a lot. When does he get to just have fun?”
I can usually guess which response I’ll get. Parents from my kids’ highly competitive school and my childless coworkers often belong to the Olympic camp, while teachers and family tend to lean towards the second response. I brush off the Olympic dreamers and reassure the concerned folks that, for my son, gymnastics is indeed fun. I also like to add that he still has plenty of time to indulge in video games. But the reality is, it’s a delicate balancing act for both of us—striking a harmony between chasing dreams and enjoying childhood—one of the many unexpected lessons we’ve picked up along the way.
To be honest, sports were never my strong suit. I tried my hand at basketball, softball, track, field hockey, dance, and gymnastics, quitting all but gymnastics. I managed to learn some neat tumbling tricks, which landed me a spot on my high school and college cheerleading teams, but academics were truly my strength.
So, when I signed my kids up for various activities—ballet, soccer, swim team, skating, and taekwondo—I didn’t expect much. They’d last a few months, sometimes a year, but nothing really clicked. Then, after watching the men’s Olympic gymnasts at a showcase, my son expressed an interest in gymnastics. It took a bit, but I eventually found him a boys’ class. Before I knew it, he was invited to join the pre-team group, and shortly thereafter, he was promoted to the competitive team. In just a few months, his gymnastics hours skyrocketed from one to eight.
It all unfolded so quickly that we barely comprehended what we had signed up for. When someone suggests your child might be exceptional and that he, a somewhat introverted kid whose prior athletic interest was limited to Wii tennis, is happier than ever, it’s challenging to say no.
The gym is a half-hour drive from our home, making the back-and-forth a bit stressful. While my daughter tackled her homework in the lobby, I found myself watching practice and growing increasingly frustrated when my son struggled to keep pace with the other boys or seemed to get less attention from the coach. The more I observed, the more stressed I became. If the coach thought he was talented, why did he keep forgetting to point his toes?
As the first competition loomed, my anxiety mounted. I joined an online gymnastics community and flooded the forums with questions. I scoured the internet for last year’s competition scores to gauge how many kids my precious boy would be up against and how they had performed. I memorized every routine element and the point values for bonus moves. Yup, I had transformed into a CGM—crazy gym mom. When the coach began reaching out for competition insights, I realized I might be just a tad out of control.
The first meet concluded on a high note. After five solid routines, my son executed an advanced bonus move in his last event, a feat accomplished by only a few competitors. He ran up to me afterward, beaming with pride. Victory!
Then came the awards ceremony. My son faced off against 67 boys, many of whom had performed the same routines the previous year. He placed just shy of medaling and fought back tears.
That two-hour drive home was torture. The coach and I tried every trick in the book to lift his spirits, but he barely spoke and even refused ice cream as a consolation. Once home, he let the tears flow in my lap. I assured him that he had done his best—and he truly did. Yet all he could see was that his best hadn’t been enough. I felt awful. What had I done?
I mentally retraced the past few months. I never intended to put any pressure on him. I had repeatedly emphasized that winning didn’t matter to me, but now I questioned if that was entirely truthful. I had to admit I felt disappointed too. I hugged him tightly and finally coaxed him off to bed. The coach texted to say he could skip practice the next day if needed.
The following morning, I was astonished to see him bounce out of bed with a smile. When I mentioned skipping practice, he insisted on going. “I’m just going to work harder,” he declared. “Next time, I’ll get a medal.” Huh. Maybe something I said resonated, or perhaps he just needed time to process it. Either way, he returned with renewed determination.
And he was right. At the next meet, he brought home a handful of medals. I was the one holding back tears when they called his name for the first time. I glanced over to see the coach grinning as broadly as my son. The rest of the meets went smoothly, and he capped off his first season with two silver medals and a bronze at the state championship.
I won’t lie—it feels a lot better to see your child win than to watch him lose. But what we both took away from the season was far more valuable than any trophy. My son learned that while medals are great, the bonds he formed with his team, the joy of hard work, and the thrill of mastering new skills are even better. I learned that I can’t shield him from disappointment, that he’s more resilient than I ever imagined, and that if I loosen the reins a little, he’ll discover his own path.
We make a lot of sacrifices for this sport. Family dinners have become rare, weekend getaways are a thing of the past, and his training’s steep costs mean fewer luxuries for everyone. But while we all support him, ultimately, he’s the one who needs to show up at the gym each day, so it has to be his passion, not just something I want for him.
Now, as he gears up for the next competitive season, he’s working harder than ever. He’s putting in more hours and tackling tougher skills, but we both feel a lot more at ease. I’ve started skipping practices. When my son shares a new skill he’s mastered, I simply say, “Wow, you really put in the effort for that,” instead of asking how many points it’s worth. After all, I can just look it up later. What? Recovery takes time.
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Summary
In this reflective piece, Sara Thompson shares her journey as an unexpected sports mom as her son dives headfirst into competitive gymnastics. She navigates the fine line between encouraging her child’s aspirations and ensuring he enjoys his childhood. The story highlights the challenges and triumphs they face, ultimately revealing valuable lessons about resilience, passion, and the importance of personal growth over medals.