How ignoring your intuition can be expensive

Why do I always seem to let things reach a crisis point before I act?

I’ve had doubts about my kids’ jujitsu school for a long while now, just from observing the sensei interacting with other parents, receiving the newsletters, and dealing with my own frustrations. For example, parents are not allowed in the dojo. I can see the benefit of that, teaching the children independence and making sure they defer to their trainers, not their probably-never-practiced-jujitsu parents, yet it leaves all the parents to cluster around the glass door if they want any insight at all. The trainers never give me feedback beyond “your child is ready for her next grading”. 

Grading is glorious, for its inclusion of the parent, finally being allowed to take photos and see what the kids are learning. It’s interesting to watch the stiff formality and ceremony. But its seems like everyone passes regardless of skill, and I can’t see much if any difference in the skills Bast has now versus when she graded the first time.

One of my goddesses has reached a blue belt, yet she can’t do the sit-ups or push-ups properly, and she refuses to strike with anything resembling force because she’ll hurt her hands. Probably for the best, as no one has taught her how to punch without breaking her own thumb.

As someone who has never done martial arts, it’s hard for me to know what to expect from a four, five, or six year old, but some of the other parents aren’t clueless. I’ve seen a few of them leave over the years, clear in their complaints and disappointment. 

There was one family who was quite new to the martial arts school when their son had a serious accident. It’s expected from time to time, not something I’d usually give much thought to if it wasn’t handled so badly.

The little boy had been running full-pelt during one of the games and tripped; flying head-first into the dojo wall. There was blood everywhere. Out in the lobby, the mum was holding him, trying to calm him down. Asking for an ice pack. But all the sensei brought her were insurance forms. “You have to sign. You have to sign.” He kept saying it over and over.

She signed. But as soon as they completed their six-month contract, they were gone. 

“There are better dojos.” Mums have told me in hushed tones. “Cheaper dojos.”

But it was never my problem. My kids were having fun, our routine was comfortable, the trainers and sensei hardly said boo to me.

That was until the littlest duo of the family enrolled. One of our three-year-olds was struggling. She doesn’t stay focused, often won’t follow directions. She’s a little behind in her speech, too, but she lacks in discipline she makes up for with her enthusiasm. What can you really expect from a kid in their first fortnight?

Peeking through the door, there’s often a kid lying on the floor, asking for their parent, pretending to do star jumps but instead flapping their arms. These are small kids. Bad days and inattention are par for the course. Nobody thinks much of it.

Yet somehow our child is singled out. “We don’t have the resources to train her,” they say, “the other kids have been saying she should sit out.” They allowed us one more class, for her to prove herself. “But not today. We only have two trainers on today and the class will be full.”

So she got left at home while the other little one went to class. A class that had four trainers on the floor, one of which who didn’t appear to be doing anything. I’m going to admit I felt hurt, knowing she could have come. Knowing she’d missed out on this thing she loves for no reason. 

As any good parental does, I approached the sensei and asked if there was anything we could be doing to help her adjust to the class and not be kicked out. Immediately he repeated his earlier statement that she takes a whole trainer to herself and they don’t have the staff. Which doesn’t answer my question at all.

This isn’t my first rodeo, you know? I volunteer in both the school girls’ classes. I go to the parent interviews. We’ve done swim survival. We’re in our second year of music school. All these places are willing to work with the parents. They give pointers for things to do at home and before lessons to help your child get the most out of their sessions. That is what I expected. 

But not what I got.

“I was curious why there were four trainers, you asked us not to bring [her] because there wouldn’t be enough staff.”

He bristles. “I had to put more staff on in case she came.”

“But you were clear not to bring her, why would we?” confrontation vibes start rising, and I battle my anxiety as it urges me to run away.

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“No, I just noticed an inconsistency and wanted to understand.” 

He steps in behind the reception desk, and I try to refocus the conversation. I explain how important this is to the kid, and reiterate that I want to work together with the school, but he has it in his head that I’m disrespecting him.

The receptionist comes out and is working beside him, brave in the face of our mounting tension. 

“I’m not calling you a liar, I was just wondering why there were four when you said there would be two.” I’m getting sick of repeating myself. 

“Oh, there are only two rostered on,” the receptionist says, “but when I saw how busy it was getting I sent a message asking anyone that arrives early to start immediately.” 

I turn to the sensei, unable to keep my sass contained, “Why couldn’t you say that?”

“You called me a liar.”

The story he gave me differed from what the receptionist just said, but he couldn’t possibly be a liar. Not that I care, that’s not why we are having this conversation. I sigh, resisting the urge to call him other things too.

“We’re both adults. Can we act like adults and find a way to support this kid?”

“You called me a liar.”

Everything I said from that point was met with the same response until I ran away crying. Not my finest moment.

A few days later my little warrior got officially kicked out of jujitsu. I have just one here today. There’s a little boy in the dojo right now stripping naked and running laps. They have an extra trainer to help him, apparently, but not my girl. His dad says he hasn’t been contacted at all about his son’s behaviour. I don’t get it. 

I’ve found another martial arts school, Brazilian jujitsu this time, with whom the goddesses will have a trial this afternoon. The twins are technically too young, and one is locked in her contract at our current school, but the head coach says he is more than willing to work with us once the twins turn four. He’s trained ASD and ADHD kids and thinks jujitsu is for everyone.

—A week or so later—

The trial was amazing. The kids were doing burpees, wall-climbers, all sorts of shit I am physically incapable of doing. And then the wrestling started. There was no duck-duck-goose. No sitting in a circle making a pretend pizza. It was all mounts and holds and games that clearly displayed the skills in use. I thought Bast would raise hell. She’s hard to impress, doesn’t enjoy fitness, and would have to return to a white belt, equal to her younger sisters. But when we came out, she asked when we are changing. When can she do this again? I’m like “I can put you in this class, but you have to give up your belt.”

“I don’t care,” she said, “I wouldn’t care if I’d earned my favourite colour. I’d give it up to go in here. I don’t even have to think about it.”

Well alright then! I can’t ask for more than that.

The others enjoyed it too, and couldn’t wait to show their dad when we came home.

So, I’ll be pulling our family out of our current jujitsu school and changing over. I just wish I’d done it sooner; when I first started having doubts. Before I signed a contract to give this man-child six months more of my money. 

Thinking of which, Brazilian jujitsu has no contract. No $100 joining fee. They have a family discount, and train twice a week (more if you want.) They don’t slog you with a cancellation fee either, which tells me the head coach is confident the service he provides is enough to keep people coming back.

If you’re in Sydney and want to talk about specific schools, you’re welcome to contact me.

Or you can share a story about how you ignored your intuition way too long, just to make me feel better. Thank you for being with me on my parenting journey.

Miriam Cumming is a proud pagan mum, auntie, co-parent and all-round Mama-Llama. When she’s not advocating for kids’ rights or animal rights, Miriam likes to read books, drink cider, and talk late into the night.  You should check out her friend’s blog, Writing While Distracted, because B does a better bio than this one.